Darkest Before Dawn
by BrighidOTheShire
Summary: In the dead of night, Faramir finds Eowyn in the gardens of the Houses of Healing...their friendship grows as the doom of the final battle nears...
1. Chapter 1

**Not mine...:sigh:...Please read and review.**

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Eowyn stood upon the tall tower of the Houses of Healing, the chill of the wind tracing fingers over her skin. Her thin dressing robe did nothing to quell the cold of the night, and she shivered slightly. The grass was wet with icy dew, and upon the breeze came the spicy scent of symblemyne. She grasped the edges of her gown to draw it close, and stepped up upon the edge of the wall. The stone was frigid under her bare feet, but she cared not. She drew herself to her full height, and stared out over the plains. The moon, mostly hidden by thick clouds, had waned to a sliver, and cast a feeble blue glow over the white stone of the city. Beneath her, shale cliffs spilled away with a breathtaking drop, their sharp crags reaching up like jagged fingers to tear any flesh they might find. Another rush of strong wind molded her gown around her, and sent small white flowers flying and whirling about her ankles. She swayed a bit, the wind pressing on her back like an insistent hand, as if urging her to plunge from the wall to the cliffs below. She shut her eyes, raised her hands slightly from her sides for balance, and lifted her chin toward the sky.

Suddenly, a strong hand closed around her wrist and gave a sharp tug. She started and lost purchase on the rock, slipping backward with a little cry of surprise and pain as her injured arm twinged a protest at the harsh treatment. She landed against a broad chest, and felt arms encircle her waist to stop her fall. She placed her good hand against the chest and pushed out violently, flinging herself backward, and looked up into the face of Faramir of Gondor. He was staring at her with sobered concern in his deep gray eyes, and Eowyn felt she saw a glint of sadness therein as well. She lowered her hands and bowed her head slightly, apologizing wordlessly for striking at him. He ducked his chin, trying to seek her gaze.

"Lady, forgive my intrusion, but the healers found you were not abed at this late hour, and were worried. They have dispatched many men to try to find you. They feared you may be delusional with fever."

Her pale skin flushed with anger and embarrassment. "I am fine, Lord Faramir, neither delusional nor feverish," she muttered. "I merely wanted to breathe the night air, and escape my bower for a short time."

Faramir gave a low chuckle. "Not many who have enjoyed the comforts of the Houses of Healing have spoken of them so."

"And how is that, my lord?" Eowyn lowered her eyes, already knowing the answer.

"As a prison."

Eowyn blushed again. "Lord, I do not wish to insult the hospitality of your healers, nor to suggest that my care has been anything less than incomparable." She sighed, rubbing absently at her aching collarbone. "I am merely..."

"You are restless," interrupted Faramir. "I understand. I myself am under the care of the healers." He fell silent for a moment, assessing her with a disconcertingly searching gaze. "I hope I did not hurt you, my lady. I only feared for your safety." He lifted his hand as if to touch her shoulder, but Eowyn turned silently from him, resting her hands on the wall and staring out into the dark of the evening. The night sky was covered by a thick layer of scudding cloud, behind which the moon hid her face, appearing only shortly to send beams of cold light across the gardens. A sudden movement caught Eowyn's attention, and she turned quickly to see a pair uniformed Gondorian soldiers come jogging around the corner, only to skid to a halt when they spied her. They looked askance to Faramir, and at a sign from him they bowed and backed up the way they had come.

"Doubtless racing to tell the gaolers that I haven't managed escape," Eowyn said bitterly, under her breath.

"You forget, lady, that above all I am a ranger," said Faramir, softly taking her arm. She stiffened at the touch. "And that being so, you should never say aloud what you do not wish to be heard." She looked sharply at him, suspecting that he was mocking her, but his face was void of any scorn. "Why is it, truly, that you desire so to be free from the hands of the healers? I can see in your face that you are not yet well."

With a slight pressure at her elbow, Faramir led her to a low standing stone bench set amid two bushes of lilac, and bade her sit. She shivered a bit again as the chill of the stone seeped through her dressing gown. Faramir swept out of his deep green cloak, and stooped to swath it about her shoulders. She tensed as his fingers brushed the bare skin of her throat as he sought to fasten the clasp. She was immediately rueful as she saw his face change, sadden, and she dropped her eyes. With a sigh that seemed dredged from his core, Faramir secured the cloak around her, carefully pinning it shut. Eowyn herself sighed as he withdrew his hand and sank to the bench next to her. The coat was still warm from Faramir's body, and she couldn't help but savor the comfort of it. She fingered the brooch that held the mantle snug about her. It was small, but carefully wrought of white gold into the likeness of a barren tree. Within its branches were twined seven minute opals, glowing faintly in the scant moonlight. "The seven stars," she murmured to herself, brushing the clasp with a feathered touch.

"You know the lore of Gondor, then?" asked Faramir, surprise twisting his brow.

"Is there much that you do not hear, Ranger?" returned Eowyn, allowing a small smile to shape her mouth.

Faramir smiled as well, the corners of his eyes crinkling slightly. "There is not much, no, lady."

Eowyn straightened and shut her eyes, sifting her memory, then recited, as a schoolgirl,

"Tall ships, and tall kings,

Three times three;

What brought they from the foundered land

Over the flowing sea?

Seven stars, and seven stones,

And one white tree."

When she opened her eyes, Eowyn found Faramir regarding her with quiet respect. "Most of the laymen of Gondor could not recite that lay. I am truly struck that you have remembered it."

She laughed, and to Faramir it seemed as the quiet chime of a bell touched by the wind. "Despite what the men of Gondor think," she said, "the people of Rohan are not unschooled, nor are they uncaring of the history of the world around them." Faramir opened his mouth to protest, but she raised her hand to halt him. "I know what your people think of Rohan, lord. We are a simple people, surely, and perhaps insular. It is said that a man with an iron tool does not look with respect upon a man with naught but a stone. Yet the man with the iron tool is not superior in all things."

Faramir smiled again and gently shook his head. "You continue to surprise me, my lady. Any who would think ill of the Rohirrim need only seek your company, and they should be forever changed in their mind."

Two bright spots of color flushed Eowyn's pale cheeks. "You flatter me, Lord Faramir, but you mustn't say that. I, of all, am not representative of my people. I would not have any take me as a model of the realm of Rohan, for they would have far too low a sentiment of an admirable people. You should look to the King, or to my brother, or to the many who held at Helm's Deep when hope fled. I did nothing but stand in wait for their return."

Faramir regarded her gravely, then slowly placed his hand over Eowyn's. "I dare not be too familiar with you, Lady Eowyn, but you sadden me. You speak as if you are lowly, unworthy of the respect that you have earned at so high a price. Despite your youth, you are so angry, so cold."

Eowyn paled, and Faramir laid a supporting hand on her shoulder, fearing she might faint. "Another man has said such to me, that I am as one touched by the frost." Faramir was shocked to see a slick of tears spring to her eyes. "He wished that I should love him, that I should deign to be his bride. And when I refused, he..." She stopped, for a moment too distraught to continue, but gathered herself with a breath. "He is responsible for every trouble that has touched my land, my people. If not for him, my uncle would still be alive, my people would not have suffered so. If not for me..." She choked on the words and could not go on.

Faramir took and clasped her hands in his own. "My dearest lady, you cannot truly believe that all that has befallen has been due to him. This evil is far greater than one mortal man, though I curse his name for causing you anguish. You must not take upon yourself the responsibility for all that has come to pass in these dark days." Faramir faltered. "I know well the grief that you feel. I have lost in these days both father and brother. I ever torment myself with thoughts of how I should have saved them. My father held such anger toward me in his soul, such disappointment..." His voice became nothing more than a whisper. "And I could do nothing to make him love me as he loved dear Boromir..."

Faramir's voice caught and he was suddenly beset by a spasm of tortured coughing. He dropped Eowyn's hands and bent double at the waist, clutching at his chest. Eowyn winced with pity at his obvious distress, and rubbed his back gently, trying to ease his rigid muscles enough that he could gain a clean lungful of the night air. After a full minute of wracking coughs, Faramir managed to gain control, and he pulled in a long shuddering breath, then drew the back of his hand across his mouth. Eowyn was horrified to see a smear of blood on his lips, and upon his hand.

"Lord Faramir," she gasped. "You should not be out in the cold eve, you are not well!" Faramir drew another shaky breath, his face pale and bloodless, eyes red-rimmed and tearing. Eowyn reached to unclasp his mantle from her throat, saying, "Let me return your cloak, lord." He lifted his hand and laid it over hers, stopping her releasing the brooch. The touch of his hand upon hers gave Eowyn sudden pause, but she roused herself, fearing for his health. "Then you must let me take you back to your room and summon your healers." She started to get to her feet, but Faramir grasped her hand and pulled her back to the bench.

"I am fine, lady," he said in a faintly strangled voice. "At any rate, I must sit and rest a moment." He dropped his head and shut his eyes, trying to concentrate on quashing the urge to begin coughing again. He still gripped her hand in his own, and she realized he was trembling with sudden exhaustion.

Eowyn sat quietly and looked at his face, truly taking him in for the first time. From afar, he had seemed completely controlled, a skilled captain and a great warrior, born of noble blood. But now he seemed to her so different, strong and valiant, true, yet granted a heart of compassion, and bearing much sorrow and loss. She raised her free hand and softly wiped the blood from Faramir's mouth with her thumb.

"I am sorry to have drawn you here tonight, Lord Faramir," she whispered. "You are still ill yourself, with the black evil laid upon us by the servants of Sauron. Yet you do not receive the consideration that I am given. I am left at leisure, urged to rest and worry not about the tide of war. Yet you, Steward of Gondor, are asked both to heal and to lead at once. I am sorry."

"You well know that the curse of being noble born is that we are not afforded the simple pleasures that others enjoy, Lady Eowyn." Faramir's shoulders quaked a bit under a chill of fever. "We shall never long be allowed to rest or to leave the matters of war to others. We are called most often to be alone, when what we desire most is to have someone at our side. Sadly, power is often a lonely burden to bear."

"You forget, lord, that I was nothing but the niece of a king. Power is not a burden with which I was saddled."

"You _are_ the niece of a king." Faramir tilted his head, his brow furrowing slightly. "My lady, the passing of the King does not take from you your birthright. Your people look to you for guidance. They followed you willingly on a journey to safety. They trusted you to keep them from harm, to show them to shelter from the storm of war. A leader who commands the trust of her people, and considers their lives equal to her own...that is indeed rare, my lady." He paused. "You are born of royalty, Lady Eowyn. And though I have known you not long, I feel there is none better suited to call herself the Princess of the Rohirrim."

Eowyn smiled sadly and murmured, "We are not so very different, you and I." Faramir raised his eyes to hers, a look of deep sorrow within. "We both suffer much to improve the fortunes of our people, yet the only fortune we find for ourselves is ill."

"And we are both very much alone," returned Faramir.

Eowyn's heart gave such a wrench that she nearly cried aloud from the sense of it. "You should go, my lord," she choked out quietly. She turned from him, cursing the tears that had risen unbidden to her eyes. He did not answer, but stared at her with a mien of such sadness and pity that she could scarcely bear it. "Please, I want you to go," she repeated, her voice still low, shaking. He sat silent for a moment, then rose slowly from the bench. He turned and placed his hands to lean heavily upon the stone wall behind, then dropped his head low. A lock of his ginger hair slid across his brow, fringing his eyelashes.

"You are filled with much grief, and much anger, Eowyn," he said softly, looking out over the cold, glittering cliffs, and Eowyn blanched at his use of her name. "You feel you are so alone. You feel you have lost everything in this war, that things have changed for ill, and shall never be the same. And you are right, my lady. Things never shall be the same, for either of us. Our worlds have been broken. Our families have been sundered. We have been drawn to the brink of death in service to our people. And still things are not clear. We cannot say if evil shall be defeated, if our kingdoms, our people, shall be saved. I know the pain it causes." Faramir turned to look at her and laid his hand over his heart. "But you choose to bear these things alone. Pain shared is pain halved, Lady Eowyn, and yet you refuse to allow anyone to touch your heart."

"My pain is my own, lord. I would not oppress anyone with the horror I have known..." Eowyn choked on the words. "Faramir, you have been so kind to me, in a time when I truly needed a friend. I do not wish to burden you with the memories of what I endured..."

Faramir ducked his head, looking her straight in the eyes. "You spoke of a man who wished for your love. I deem that he is the hand behind your pain." It was as though his gaze pinned her in place, and Eowyn found she could not look away. He slowly slid to a seat upon the bench at her side and took her hand once again. She shuddered, not at his touch, but at the memory of Wormtongue's breath upon her throat, the feeling of his skin, his touch soft yet sinister, against her own.

"Please, lord..." pled Eowyn, and the lights of the city shattered into shards, sparkling in jeweled starbursts as her eyes filled with tears. "Please..." she repeated, bringing Faramir's hand to her lips. "I beg you, speak of it no more. I cannot bear it..." Still clutching his hand, she dropped her head.

Gently, Faramir lifted his free hand and brushed a gossamer wisp of Eowyn's white-golden hair behind her ear. The feather-softness of his touch made her shiver involuntarily, and then her tears began to fall, and a sob hitched in her chest. Faramir gathered her into his arms, holding her tight to his chest. Her hands were pressed against his chest, trying to push him away, but he would not allow it, and finally all fight drained from Eowyn and she sagged into his embrace, snaking her hands behind Faramir's back to hold him tighter. He could feel her tears upon his throat, and a wave of pity and protectiveness swept over him. He stroked her hair with one hand, and whispered, "You needn't fear anymore, my lady. The tide has yet to turn, but we shall defeat the darkness before the end. Our people shall survive, and grow and rebuild. The sorrow shall pass into memory, and our hearts shall heal."

Against Faramir's chest, Eowyn shook her head in despair. "I fear my heart shall never be whole again, my lord. All of my wishes, my dreams, have been crushed. My uncle lies in state, for I could not save him...my brother girds for war, from which he shall likely not return. Again I am constrained to stay behind as watch as the fate of my people, of my family is decided. You, of all others, can understand...I have lost the man who was more father to me than uncle. Now Eomer shall be mired in the affairs of state and of war. Hama is dead. The women of the court are always talking of finding a husband and continuing the line of Eorl...but..." She faltered, and fell silent, paling at her near slip.

Faramir rested his cheek atop her head. "My lady, I know what it is that pricks your heart so." Eowyn closed her eyes in despair, tears wobbling upon her lashes. "I have spoken long with the king of Rohan, your brother. He has told me of your desire to be loved by the Lord Aragorn." A sob hitched in Eowyn's chest, and humiliation threatened to overwhelm her, her face flushed crimson. "He told me also that a bond between you could never be, that the Lord is betrothed to another." Faramir raised Eowyn's face in his hands, smoothing a tear away with his thumb. "But you mustn't allow this sadness to take your will to live, my lady, to find happiness." Faramir paused, conflicted. "I hope you think me not too bold, lady, but you are beautiful. One might even say perilously so. You mustn't believe that all is now lost, though it may seem so in the darkness of trial. Light and joy shall someday dawn upon our lands again, and you must find the strength to wait upon it."

With that Faramir gently laid his arm across Eowyn's shoulder and turned her to face the deep night beyond the wall


	2. Chapter 2

**Nothing belongs to me, I'm only borrowing...please review!**

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Blood rolled slowly down her whitening limb as she stared out the window in deep contemplation. The wound on her forearm had reopened and bled through her bandages, a gory reminder of the days past, but she could not bring herself to care. She stared at the crimson trail that snaked down her wrist to drip from her fingertips, dropping silently to the stone floor. With every shining maroon orb that fell a memory flared...the king's ivory face as he lay in state in the silent Tower Hall...Eomer's tears as he berated her for foolish bravery...Aragorn's sad eyes as he tended her wounds...Wormtongue's pallid skin as he stroked his fingers across her cheek...

Eowyn turned from the window and shook her head, willing herself not to think of Grima. Her stomach tightened as she thought of his penetrating eyes, his half-lidded stares. She knelt in front of the hearth and lifted her sound arm to stoke the fire, inhaling the aroma of the burning oak timber. It smelled like Meduseld, and she couldn't repress a slight, twisted smile at the thought of her home. Could she bear to return there now, without her uncle? Eomer would never allow her the freedoms that Theoden's dotage had done. She had taken advantage of the king's illness to slip unheeded into the countryside, exploring the land of her people without escort, reveling in the solitude of the wilderness. But finding her near death on Pelennor field had stirred in Eomer the will to keep her out of harms way, and therefore closeted in solitude again. He had expressed over and over that he would never allow her to be hurt again, all while clutching her to his chest as though she could save him from drowning.

The room was dark but for the glow of the fire. The moon was hidden beneath the clouds that roiled forth from Mordor, casting pitch black night across Gondor and beyond. The only light that Eowyn could see was the pinpricks of lanterns from the city far below, sending tiny pools of illumination to fight the darkness. She sighed and settled to the floor in front of the fire, shivering at the stone flagons' chill against her legs. Her deep green dressing gown did nothing to quell the cold. She pulled a thick quilt from a chair and tucked it around her, burrowing her chin into the fabric. It was elaborately decorated, beaded and brocaded with the White Tree, with tiny jeweled stars sprinkled over the midnight fabric. She shut her eyes against the light of the flames, feeling the heat roll against her face. She began to drowse in the warm cocoon and her head dropped to the side to rest on the side of the bed, in a dreamless haze.

She did not wake when the door eased open, nor did she hear the soft bootsteps cross the floor. Faramir of Gondor knelt at her side, unconsciously rubbing his hand against the stubble on his cheek as he watched her. She looked serene sleeping there, her face unfurrowed by lines of worry or pain, with the brocaded blanket draped over her body. He had not seen her thus before, and he was rendered mute by the peace and beauty of her face. He searched his mind for a woman of Gondor who could be called her equal, but no one came to his thoughts. Then with a sudden jolt he saw his mother's face. As dark as Eowyn was fair, they shared the same sad countenance, the same grief veiled behind their eyes. In his mind's eye Faramir could still see Finduilas' sorrowful face as clear as staring into a looking glass.

A distant roll of thunder drew Faramir's gaze to the window. A dark stain trailed from the windowsill to the floor, puddling in a crimson oval on the stones. He frowned as his eyes traced the dark drops to the fireplace and to Eowyn's sleeping form. He could see a stain of blood darkening the quilt she had wrapped herself in. Getting to his feet with difficulty, feeling still the stabbing pain in his chest from the wounds of the dark arrows, he plucked some fresh bandages from the mantle, then returned to kneel at Eowyn's side. After a moment's hesitation he reached to stroke Eowyn's cheek, then thought better of it and gently touched her shoulder instead. Eowyn awoke with a start, jerking backward away from Faramir's touch with a little gasp.

"I am sorry I frightened you, my lady," said Faramir in a low voice. "But your wound has opened and needs to be redressed. Rather than rouse the healers I thought I should do it myself, if you would allow it." Eowyn unconsciously ran her palm across her face, brushing a tendril of hair out of her eyes.

"Of course my lord. You startled me out of sleep, for a moment I thought..." she stopped for a moment, her mouth tightening. "I mistook you for someone else." She dropped her eyes and distracted herself by untwining herself from the quilt. She presented her wounded arm to Faramir, not looking him in the eye. There was a kettle simmering softly on the fire, and he filled a small bowl with water. He then gently took her by the elbow and began to unwrap her bandages. With a soft cloth he dribble warm water on the wound, sponging away the dried blood. His brow was wrinkled as he retrieved a small vial from the pocket of his breeches and dripped some ointment onto Eowyn's arm. With gentle pressure he worked the salve into the injury, mouth pursed with concentration.

Eowyn looked away, not because she could not stomach the sight of the wound, but because tears had come to her eyes at the softness of his touch. "Lord Faramir," she began. He looked up from her arm, meeting her eyes with his own gray ones, brow raised. "Thank you," she said, "for speaking with me last night in the gardens. Your words have helped me, truly. You are right. There is still hope."

A smile spread across Faramir's face. "I am so pleased to hear you say that, lady. I have feared for you, that you would not choose hope, but would give up and pine away before the end reveals itself. You have chosen life, and for that I am so..." he paused, grasping for words. "I am grateful."

"Grateful my lord?" asked Eowyn, confused. "I do not understand."

Faramir dropped his eyes back to Eowyn's arm. With practiced fingers he rewrapped the wound, precisely knotting the bandages. He stared down at her swathed forearm, his heart suddenly pounding wildly. He took a deep breath and sighed it out, raising his head to meet Eowyn's bewildered gaze. "May I sit for a while with you, my lady, and tell you a story?"

"Of course, lord, please." Faramir slid to a seat at Eowyn's side, rubbing at his eyes with his fingers. Eowyn felt a strange thrill at the feeling of his side pressing against hers, and grew more conflicted yet again.

"You know of my father and my brother, Lady Eowyn, but you know not of my mother." Faramir stared into the fire. "My mother came from Dol Amroth, in the South by the sea. She was very beautiful, with raven dark hair and eyes like the gray seas. She was betrothed to my father when she was still a girl, and when she came of age she was brought to Minas Tirith to be wed. Theirs was not a great love of the ages, but a friendship. They loved one another, after a fashion, but my mother was never truly happy. She missed her home. She missed being free to do what she would. Instead she was bound by the rules of the court, and by my father's fears for her safety. My father dreaded that some dark fate would befall my mother, whether by accident or ill design. He jealously guarded her beauty, afraid that another would steal her away as a prize, or that she would find love with a secret suitor. So he cloistered her, and would not allow her the freedom she coveted. She was not allowed to leave her tower, much less the city itself. She wished to be out in the world, among the people. She missed the sea air, and her home where she could follow her own heart without fear of my father. Boromir's birth brought them joy, for a time. My father thought that her sadness had left her. Then I was born." Faramir stopped, setting his jaw and looking at the floor. "Again, for a time, she was happy. She had someone to care for, to look after. But as I grew older she began to feel unneeded, useless, and she fell deep into despair. She took to her bed, refusing to see anyone. She stared at the walls, seeing nothing. She would not take food or water. When she did speak she talked of a shadow in the East, a shadow that hungered only for blood, death. She was preoccupied with this vision of the future, saying that death was coming for us all. In the end she made her choice. She chose to give up on hope and succumb to anguish. She never saw the sea again." Faramir's voice softened and Eowyn ducked her head closer to him. "I was five years old..."

"My lord I am so very sorry," Eowyn said softly, surprising herself by grasping for Faramir's hand. "I too know what it is like to lose a mother to melancholy."

"I tell you this, lady, because I see my mother in you." Faramir's answer shocked Eowyn into stillness. "I feared that you too would choose to give up hope for despondency, and waste away in sorrow." Faramir turned to face Eowyn, and startled her by gently caressing her cheek. "You and my mother are two sides of the same coin, Eowyn. I see so much of her in you." He paused, and it seemed to Eowyn that he was mustering courage. "I was so young when she died that I never had the chance to make her happy. Perhaps you'll give me the chance to do that for you."

Eowyn opened her mouth but could not find a reply. Faramir's hand still rested against her cheek, the gentle warmth joining with the flush that was rising in her face. Finally she raised her hand and covered his. "Lord Faramir, I am truly touched that you compare me to your mother. It is clear that you loved her very much. But as for me, I am no great beauty, nor am I whole." She paused. "I am damaged, Faramir. I am not worthy of the happiness which you offer to me."

"Neither am I whole. But together perhaps we could be. And as for beauty..." He stopped and met Eowyn's blue eyes with his gray gaze. "As for beauty, I hope you'll forgive me being forward when I say that you are the greatest beauty I have ever laid eyes upon. Understand that I am not speaking about carnal inclination," Faramir said softly. "My dearest desire is to see you smile, to truly feel the joy of living. I wish you to ride with me across Gondor, from the mountains to the sea, I wish to lay under the stars with you. I want to give you what you crave, my lady. I want to give you freedom." He paused, and twined his fingers through hers. "I want to be with you Eowyn." A shock ran through Eowyn to hear him speak his desire so plainly. "I am not the king. I am not Lord Aragorn. I cannot offer you a throne, or a court to care for you. There is no guarantee that I shall even live to see the end of this war. But I would go to the last battle knowing that I go with your heart. Give me something to survive for, lady." The soft pleading in Faramir's voice made Eowyn shiver.

"You are wise, Lord Faramir, that you have divined what I yearn for. I do long to be free, to not be bound by courts or rules or protective brothers." Faramir smiled. "But I must have time, my lord. I must have time to grieve for my uncle and for my people. I must have time to think."

Faramir nodded and pressed Eowyn's hand to his lips. "I am sorry if I have further burdened you my lady. But I am pleased to see that you have chosen to seek hope in these dark days. And I would very much like to be at your side as you do. But remember this." He lowered his forehead to bump against hers. "To dwell on what might have been only wounds the heart. Look to the future." With that he gently placed his hands on Eowyn's face and kissed her forehead with whisper softness. "Think on me, my lady." And with one last tender caress of her cheek, he was gone.


	3. Chapter 3

**I wish they were mine. A certain Scot would be in the cupboard below my sink if they were. Also, thanks to all who reviewed. You are far too kind. Please read and review.**

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His sleep was light, his ears ever alert for any sound, any indication of danger. His head was aching with strain, from long hours of watching and waiting for the inevitable to leap out at him, scimitar drawn, snarling with lust for blood, his blood. A distant splash, as of a minute pebble in a deep well, bade him open his eyes to be greeted by pitch night. He did not move but instead flicked his eyes around his surroundings, taking in every detail, scanning for danger. Every sense was screaming, tingling with anticipation and adrenaline. He could smell the river, hear the distant sound of rustling leaves, see the outline of a soldier standing watch on a parapet. But the sudden rank odor of orc drove Faramir to his feet with a sudden rush. His keen ears caught footsteps before they reached him and he whirled, sword in hand, only in time to parry a blow from a squint-eyed, snarling orc. With a roar of fury the creature stumbled back, then raised its hand to attack again. Silently, teeth bared, eyes narrowed, Faramir ducked beneath the blow and rammed his sword to the hilt into its gullet. He felt the dark blood splash over his hand, and he twisted the blade with the practice of a career soldier, feeling muscle and meat tear and give. He looked into the wild eyes of the orc and with a rush of anguish saw reflected there, pensive and pale, the face of his dead brother.

Faramir woke with a start and immediately stared at his hands, looking for blood. Realization flooded him and he slumped back against the bolster, exhaling a shaky breath. Dreams were his bane now, refusing him respite from battle even as he recovered behind the walls of the city. In sleep war found him.

Knowing that rest would elude him now, he thrust the coverlet away from his legs and stood, grimacing as a knot twinged in his neck. He straightened and stretched his hands toward the sky, feeling muscles unkink and bones pop. Grasping his shirt he gingerly threaded his arms in, careful not to brush against the bandaged wounds on his chest. As he opened the door and stepped into the hallway he took a long look around. Lined up and down the corridor there were men...dead men, injured men, weeping men, silent men. His men. He rubbed his palm over his mouth, trying to force the weariness from his mind, to put on determination and hope for his soldiers. Part of his mind screamed at him, "Betrayal! Betrayal!" He closed his eyes against the thought, the knowledge that he was cloistered in the city while his men went out to die. Never before had his soldiers faced battle without him. What now would they think of their captain, watching as they marched away without him?

Shaking the self-doubt from his mind he knelt on the stone floor. Before him there lay a battered young man, his head pillowed on his own bloodstained cloak. A large, gory wound slashed its way across the soldier's face, from temple to chin, so changing his features that he barely looked human. Faramir lightly touched the man on the chest and whispered, "How are you doing, son?" The soldier opened one eye, the other gummed shut with blood.

"It's nothing Captain. I'll be back in the brawl in less than a day." He tried to smile, but his wound stretched and tore with the effort, and he let out a moan of pain, a bubble of blood frothing on his lips. Faramir gently mopped at it with a square of bandage.

"Rest you well, young warrior of Gondor. There will be plenty of fight left for all of us, there is no hurry." Faramir rested back on his heels and regarded the young man with a heavy heart. "You did well, son." He couldn't bring himself to say more, so he patted the soldier's shoulder and stood, rubbing a forearm over his weary eyes. He looked up and down the corridor at casualty after casualty and his heart constricted within him. He didn't think he could go on, up and down that passage, looking at the battered faces of the young men who had followed him into hell. A pang seized in his chest, reminding him yet again of his own wounds. He rested his palm over his breast, taking a deep breath against the pain, but then a sudden sight took that breath away.

Eowyn was kneeling at the side of one of the soldiers, gently cleaning a gruesome stab wound on his shoulder. Her fair hair was knotted into a loose bun, though a few gossamer strands had escaped, falling to frame her face. She smiled as she spoke in low tones to the wounded man, brushing a strand of hair out of his eyes. The soldier was smiling back, though his features were creased with pain. Faramir's heart gave an odd jump as he looked at her there, unworried about the blood on her hands, concerned only with distracting the man from his agony. With a final gentle look, Eowyn began wiping her hands on a rag that she had draped over her arm. She glanced back over her shoulder and her eyes locked with Faramir's. He gave her a shaky smile and rubbed his hand over his cheek, suddenly aware of the unshaven scruff on his face. She laid her bloody towel back across her shoulder, mindless of her gown, and held her hand out to him. He took it, helping her to her feet, and she was supremely conscious of the feel of his hand on hers.

"You have a way with the men." Faramir tucked her hand into his elbow and smiled. "It is nice to see them smile in the midst of their pain." He laughed quietly, "You are a much fairer visitor for them than I. You've stolen my thunder."

"Don't rob yourself of credit, my lord. Your men love you, I can see it. I've spoken with many of them and all have asked after you. They feared for you, and are so grateful that you were spared." Eowyn tipped her head to the side, unconsciously shaking a strand of hair out of her eyes. "A captain so loved by his men is rare, and your soldiers know that they are blessed to have you."

"I know of one who would differ," said Faramir under his breath, barely aware that he had even spoken aloud. Eowyn looked at him from the corner of her eye and tightened her grip around his arm. He sighed heavily and patted her hand. "May I show you something?" Eowyn nodded silently and tucked herself against his side as he led her out of the houses of healing. There was a light drizzle in the air, softening into fuzzy glows the lanterns that were lit against the dusk. Faramir ducked beneath a stone overhang, which snaked upward and out of sight, and with his body sheltered Eowyn against the rain.

They were silent as they walked together, Eowyn taking in for the first time the city outside of the houses. It was clearly a city under siege, marked with the filth and decay that accompanies war, but behind the crumbling stone and the debris-filled streets, she could see the glory that had defined Minas Tirith in its golden age. There was a sad beauty in the ruin, an echo of the past, a token of the future. Faramir walked on without seeing, his eyes distant, face sad. He led her through a domed tunnel, and for a few short moments she could sense only the warmth of his arm against her hand, then a speck of gray light grew to wide open sky.

They were at the brink of the city. Only the White Tower surpassed them, reaching high above them like a pillar of ivory. In the gray of dusk the White Tree stood, shrunken, twisted, naked. Its guardians stood around it, facing north, south, east and west, silent and still, their eyes fixed on some invisible point beyond the horizon. Faramir stopped for a moment beside the tree and reached up to gently stroke one of the bare branches. Without a word he touched his fingers to his lips, then led Eowyn away from the tree, toward the escarpment that jutted from the mountain.

Spread out beneath them lay the city, and beyond the field of Pelennor. Farther still Eowyn could see the mountain peaks of Mordor, backlit by some uncommon red glow. Faramir walked ever closer to the precipice, leading Eowyn on. Disquiet began to grow in her heart and she slowed, feeling Faramir continue walking inexorably toward the edge. She let go of his arm and finally he stopped, turning to look at her. He looked in her eyes, and she felt frozen in his gaze as he asked softly, "Trust me?" She felt her mouth set into a hard line and she hesitated a moment, then stepped forward to take Faramir's outstretched hand. He escorted her to the very brink of the stony prow, and she looked down on the vast, white stillness of the city. Far below moved tiny specks of men, hurrying to and fro in the business of war, their voices swallowed in the distance. The height made her head swim and she clutched at Faramir as an anchor. She felt his arms encircle her, holding her firmly, and her fear evaporated, and she marveled at the sight.

"This is where I said farewell to my brother for the final time. We stood here on the height and looked at one another for we could not think of any words to say. I knew in my heart that he would not return, though I hoped that I was wrong. I believe he knew it too, somewhere inside, for finally he put his arm around me and whispered in my ear that now I must care for his men. I have striven to do him justice in the way that I lead. But I know that the men remember their true captain, Boromir of Gondor, for he was the truest and best that they had ever known, or could know." Eowyn tilted her chin to look up at Faramir. His eyes were sad and the corners of his mouth were pinched. "I have done my best."

"My lord, your best is more than enough. Your men do love you. You are not your brother, no, but a man apart from him. And they would follow you to the gates of Mordor and beyond, because you are their captain and they trust you."

"Should they?" Faramir's voice was not much more than a whisper. "They are marching away without me. They rush on to death while I linger here."

"What would it benefit anyone for you to march with them only to fall in battle because you are not yet well enough to fight?" Eowyn paused, carefully considering her words. "Lord Faramir, your father is gone. Your brother is gone. You cannot prove anything to them now." Faramir looked at her sharply and she feared for a moment that she had wounded him deeper than she had intended. But despite the gleam of pain in his eyes there was also grim resignation. "You are a good man Faramir. Never doubt that." Eowyn's heart softened as she saw the corner of his mouth tremble and she snaked her arms around his waist. He rested his cheek against the top of her head and she stood there in mist, feeling his heart beat against her cheek.


	4. Chapter 4

**They're not mine. They belong to JRR Tolkien, the only Lord of the Ring, ifyou really think about it. Please read and review.**

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Faramir gusted a sigh as he stood at the peak of the city. Far below he could see the armed host massed, tiny soldiers on tiny horses on their way to fight a foe bigger than all of them combined. The dying light of the evening cast long shadows on them, like shades of the dead lurking. His heart constricted as if by a fist as he thought of his men riding off to bloodshed without him, for he felt that many, if not most, would not return. He tilted his chin to the sky, surveying the long horizon upon which there lay a deepening cloud, black like the smoke of a funeral pyre, dark like a night without moon or stars. A wind washed over him, carrying the unmistakable smell that had hung in a pall over the city for days. It was unique, one of a kind. It was death on the air.

Turning from the sight of war, he slowly walked back toward the Citadel, hands clasped behind his back. Doing so pulled at the muscles of his chest, making them twinge in protest, for he was still healing, but he ignored it. "_Pain is weakness leaving your body_." Denethor's words sprang to Faramir's mind and he smiled without mirth, his mouth twisting at the corners. "_You mewl like a foundling, boy. Show your worth, hide your pain_."

Faramir's feet carried him without thought, wandering aimlessly across stone cobbles, through shadowed alleyways, until he blinked to find himself standing, staring at Fen Hollen, the Closed Door, behind which ran the Silent Road. There was no porter to be seen, for who stands to guard the dead when death itself stalks? The door, huge and ancient, carved with the faces of many proud dead men, stood like a guard itself, solid, unmoving. Faramir stared at it a long moment, imagining whispers from the dead beyond, beckoning. They would have him yet, they hissed, for next time they would not be robbed of his bones. His hand strayed to his belt, from which hung many keys. They had been taken, covered with char, from the body of his father and pressed into his hands when he awoke from his dark sleep, his birthright reduced to a handful of cold metal. To this he had added the key to Fen Hollen, wrested from the cold grip of the porter who had died following Denethor's orders. Devotion to the utmost. His fingers caressed the keys, touching each one in turn, until they rested upon a large key, wrought in silver with the image of a barren tree. As he looked down his eyes fell upon a dark stain upon the stones, a blot marking where a young man's life had oozed away.

Almost without thought Faramir lifted his hand and fitted the key to the door lock, listening to the mechanisms in the door as he turned it. Each click and knock sent a stab of fear through him, curling his stomach in on itself, stopping his breath. He knew what lay beyond the doors. Finally the key stopped turning and he felt the door swing slightly inward as if beckoning him on. Faramir's mouth formed into a small 'o' as he took a steadying breath, eyes unfocused, heart hammering. He knew what lay beyond. He pushed the door and it swung freely open, revealing the passageway beyond, which led, he knew, curving and curling, to the stone porch of the House of Stewards. He knew what lay beyond. Yet still he stepped through the arched doorway, staring ahead with pain filled eyes. Death lay beyond. His father lay beyond.

As he walked on, sometimes with unsteady steps, he took in the shadows that were cast by the stone gables across the cobbled street. Light, dark, light, dark, light, dark, like a hundred dawns and dusks strewn across the ground, like the days of the dead kings ahead, spread for the counting. Unending, light and dark, Rath Dinen twisted away out of sight, down to the last doors of doom, of death. On he followed, drawn like a moth to a lantern in the night. Around the last bend he espied the mammoth dome of the Houses of the Stewards standing silent, guarding its dead. Faramir stopped at the base of the steps, looking upward into shadow at the silent stone hall where a father had tried to kill his son. And as a breeze whispered over him, whirling down the alley, Faramir faltered, for he could smell on the wind the dreadful scent of burned flesh. A sudden moan escaped him, horrified him. "Oh," he groaned, "How could you?" His knees weakened and he began to stumble, but a strong hand caught his elbow and guided him to a seat on the steps.

After a long moment with his face buried in his hands, Faramir raised his eyes and met the gray-eyed gaze of Beregond. The soldier was clad in silver armor and cloaked with green and silver. He carried in his arms a plain silver helm, not the Numenorean sea-helm which distinguished the Guard of the Citadel, and his cloak was plain, unadorned. There was a grim set to his mouth. "Rest a moment, my lord," he said, kneeling awkwardly at Faramir's side. "Perhaps you are not well enough to be out so far from the Houses of Healing."

Faramir gave a wry smile. "I felt I could not lie abed when war has come. My feet begged me to roam and my mind would not rest, so I thought I would see what I could of the war host." He looked at Beregond's clumsy position and motioned to the steps next to him. "Please." With a deep sigh and the creak of armor Beregond settled to a seat at Faramir's side. "Should you not be with your men? They need their leader, my friend." Beregond set his jaw and Faramir could see the dull cast of sorrow in his eyes. There was a long pause, and Faramir felt a clutch of fear grow in his stomach. Finally Beregond spoke, in a voice barely audible.

"If I am to be honest, I know not for how long I shall be with them, lord. Even if I live through what is to come my life is forfeit, for I left my post at time of battle and killed in the sacred Hallows. It is perhaps best that I do fall in battle, for then my son shall not live with the stain of having a father put to death for dereliction, for murder." At mention of his son Beregond's eyes grew bright and his face pale. "I only wish he need not know that his father was a traitor to his post."

"Beregond, my friend, brave man of Gondor, you are not a traitor." Faramir gripped Beregond's shoulder and sought his eyes. "If not for you I too would be dead, consumed by that fire of madness that killed my father."

Beregond looked steadfastly at his hands. "I weep for the men I killed, who were so devoted to their master. They stood before me and defied my sword, willing to die to follow his commands, however mad. Unquestioning devotion while I denied my duty."

Faramir's own heart twinged with sorrow as he thought, "_Alas that brave blood was shed to save only me_."

"Ah, Lord Faramir, is this the end of us all?" The bluntness of Beregond's question roused Faramir from his thoughts. "Can men overcome this horror? Evil is strong, so strong..." Beregond shook his head. "Will my son see the glory of Gondor restored? Or will he look back on these days as the twilight of his people? Will he live to look back at all?" Questions poured from him like water, words tumbling out one after another and his hands clutched one another, gnarled and grasping in his despair.

Faramir paused, his heart pained for his comrade. "It is your lot to fight to the end, dear Beregond. It is difficult to see the light, to know whether dawn will follow this long night. But you must fight for your son. Perhaps the blood of Gondor can wash the darkness away and bring a new day for the children." He forced a chuckle. "I long to go with you on this great adventure, friend, but it is my lot to stand and watch you all march away. How empty the city will seem, for first the women and children fled and now the men go out to battle. I don't know if the city has ever seemed so lonely."

Both men lapsed into silence, absorbed in their own thoughts and unable to speak any more of what was in their hearts. Finally Beregond nodded and stood, then helped Faramir to his feet. His eyes sought to meet Faramir's. Deep lines etched his mouth, and his eyes were again bright. "My lord, I am loathe to ask you this favor, but my heart would be eased if I knew."

"Anything, friend. I owe you my life." Faramir took Beregond's hand in his own.

After a short moment, Beregond said quietly, "I ask that you look after my son. Whether I lose my life in battle or lose it to the traitor's gallows, I would die knowing he will be well raised. His mother can take good enough care, but he must have someone teach him to be a man. He has a grandsire at Lossarnach, but old men are not meant for raising rambunctious young lads. Through the years I have known you, you have proved yourself to be a man of quality. Please teach him to be a man of whom I could be proud."

_Quality...quality..._The words echoed in Faramir's head and he gripped Beregond's hand all the tighter. "I shall see to it that Bergil grows into a man that any soldier of Gondor would be proud of. If he is half the man his father is, there is no need for fear." Beregond's chin quivered and Faramir, abandoning all pretense of lordship, grasped his friend in a crushing embrace. "Be safe, my friend. Come back whole for your son, and for me."

Beregond clapped him several times on the back, harrumphing to cover his shaky breaths. Faramir released him and Beregond looked at his face for a long moment. Then he said in a quiet voice, "I would do it again, you know. I would save you again." With that he turned away, dashing at his face, and walked swiftly up Silent Street toward the Closed Door. Faramir looked after him, pursing his mouth against the tears. He sat down again on the cold stone steps and shut his eyes. Above the scent of death and flesh on the air, the odor of fire and filth, he could smell the river. The river smelled like life.


	5. Chapter 5

**Nope, still not mine...please review!**

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Eowyn flexed her fingers and massaged one hand with the other, cringing against the cramp that was seizing in her palm. In her lap and strewn across her bed were dozens of bundles of bandage, torn carefully from strips of linen. She had lost count of how many she had rolled, only aware of the growing pains in her hands and the fatigue that was creeping over her, sending bolts of pain shooting through her shoulder-blades. With a deep breath she stood and swept the rolled linen into a waiting basket. She cracked her door open, peeking out to be sure that no one was around to spot her in her dressing gown, then set the basket outside the door of her bower. She managed a smile as she thought of the healers finding this new bounty, which they would undoubtedly make use of in short order. The houses were still full to overflowing, with men in every room and corridor. Many had been patched up and sent back out to rejoin their companies. Eowyn wondered how many would survive the battle to come, for luck does not visit a man overmuch and the men who had lived through the siege of Minas Tirith had spent their lot.

She hitched her peignoir closer around her against the chill of dusk and gazed at the guttering flames in the hearth. As she stood she took inventory of herself, gauging the pain in each muscle, testing her range of motion. Her eyes roved the room, taking in the embroidered sheets, the fine tapestries, the silver pitcher at her bedside. Everything was so different from Meduseld, she reflected, yet she did not feel uncomfortable. She felt strangely at home. Suddenly her eyes caught, hidden in the corner, cloaked in shadow, her sword. She gently lifted it, feeling the hefty weight in her hand, running her fingers over the filigree in the scabbard, touching the cold steel of the hilt. Slowly, softly, like stroking the hand of a lover, she drew the sword from the scabbard. Whoever had retrieved it from Pellenor Field had taken care to clean it, buffing it to a gleam before turning it over to Eomer. Eowyn smiled as she thought of her brother and the look on his face when he brought the sword to her. He hesitated before putting it into her hands and she could read in his face that he had a sneaking suspicion that she would be off to war in no short order. She looked in his eyes and made a silent promise that no longer would she seek bloodshed, no more would she chase peace in the roar of battle.

As she slipped the blade back into the scabbard she felt odd, like something was missing, and she stopped to examine the sword carefully, scanning for defect or damage. Then realization struck her with clarity like water. She understood, with a twisting in her stomach, that what was missing was the desire to use the sword. Her mouth pursed as she tried to process this foreign sensation, and she quickly laid the sword on the bed, then stood staring at it for a long, silent moment.

A whisper-quiet knock on the door startled her, for in truth she felt she had been forgotten in the bustle of preparation for the final battle. She quickly ran her hand across her brow, catching a few errant wisps of hair and tucking them behind her ear, for a sudden quiet voice in her mind had whispered, "_Faramir..." _Her eyes widened at the thought and she berated herself. "_Your lesson was not well learned, Eowyn. Fawning and swooning like a doe-eyed lass, matters of the heart are beyond you..." _With a little sound of derision she defiantly pulled some hairs loose and let the breeze catch them. Smoothing her palms over her stomach she called quietly, "Enter."

The door creaked open and Eowyn was startled to see Eomer enter. "Eomer," she blurted, "what are you doing here?" A grin crossed Eomer's face and she flushed, then smiled herself. "I am sorry brother, I only expected you to be with the men."

Eomer patted her arm. "I would not leave without saying goodbye, my sister, and making sure that you are being well cared after." He paused and a strange look of dislike crossed his face. "I would feel easier if you were back in Rohan. The healers here have more work than they can bear, and somehow I feel that the air would be healthier for you back home." A pause. "I am not comfortable here."

Eowyn smiled and gestured for Eomer to sit upon the stone bench at the foot of the bed. He did so, grasping her hand and pulling her to a seat beside him. "Why do you say that, brother? Our treatment has been more than hospitable, and the city is a wonder. I marvel at the stonework, it is so magnificent, and must have taken many ages to build. Gondor's people are artists with this mountain rock, more like dwarves than men."

Eomer frowned, little creases forming between his eyebrows. "Perhaps I feel uneasy because is so much stone here. It is cold, monumental. It feels like life should not be sustained here, only the ghosts and shadows of the past. Ah, I miss the great grass plains, with the wildflowers in bloom and the thunderheads climbing on the horizon, where you can ride full out, you and the wind. I cannot imagine people living daily life in this place, trapped in this stone fortress, bounded by rock walls and restrained by great doors."

"Sometimes there are lesser things than stone that trammel a soul, Eomer. Even the wilds of Rohan can seem like a prison if you choose to see them that way." Eowyn tipped her head and rested it on Eomer's shoulder, taking comfort in the feeling of its strong curve against her cheek.

"I hope that when we return to Rohan you shall not think that way again, Eowyn." Eomer rested his own cheek atop Eowyn's head and grasped one of her hands in his own. "You can never know how it felt to see you so unhappy and to be unable to make you smile." Eowyn felt the muscles in his jaw tighten. "I will strangle that foul worm with my two hands if ever I see him again. How I hate him for what he has done."

"I fear that revenge's hand will be stayed, for he has fled to the far darkness. I doubt he will ever muster the courage to show his face in Rohan again." Eowyn paused and squeezed Eomer's hand. "And I would not have you shed more blood for only me, Eomer. The past is gone and cannot be undone by the sword. Grima's treachery will out in time, and his end will be fitting, I would venture. Fate does not forget, no matter how long the years may be, and she will not forget Grima." Eomer pulled away from Eowyn and looked down at her, eyes wondering.

"I am amazed, sister, that you can say such. How is it that you can harbor forgiveness for such a man, such a snake? I rage at the thought of him whispering his poison in your ears, tearing you down until you thought yourself unworthy of happiness. I shudder at the thought of his..." Eomer trailed off, unable or unwilling to voice his revulsion. "How I hate him." His words were barely audible, spoken through clenched teeth, a whispered hiss not meant to be heard by anyone but the sky. Eowyn did not answer, feigning deafness to the comment, but instead turned her face to rest her forehead on his shoulder. Eomer took a steadying breath and in the silence let his eyes scan the room. They fell quickly upon the sword as it lay on the bed, a silver slash on dark silk. He looked back at Eowyn and she imagined that she saw betrayal in his gaze. Silence as thick as a fog fell, for a long and painful moment.

"Eomer?" Eowyn caught the corner of her lip in her teeth. "Brother, are you angry with me?" Eomer looked at her sharply, his chin jutting suddenly forward with surprise and, she thought, rage. His eyes were piercing, scanning her face as if through sheer concentration he could see into her mind. He sat there for a long moment, a moment that seemed like an age, staring, probing.

"I do not understand you Eowyn." Despite the pain and anger in his eyes, Eomer's voice was quiet, even. "After all the death...Father, Mother, Theodred, now the King. After all that death how is that you still seek battle? Do you even think of me, sister?" He grasped her chin in his hand and forced her to meet his eyes. "Can you imagine how I felt as I found you at Pellenor? Can you imagine my pain? I thought I would die from it, Eowyn, I thought my heart had split in two. I thought I was the last of our line, alone, left by all who I love. All my life I have tried to shelter you, to protect you from the pains of life. Father and Mother would have looked to me to keep you safe, to give you everything that they would have done. But I could not protect you." There was a catch in Eomer's voice and Eowyn felt her throat tighten. "I could not protect you from Wormtongue and I could not protect you from yourself." Eomer stopped and the corners of his mouth pinched. "I am not angry with you Eowyn. But though I am loathe to admit it, you have hurt me and frightened me and I still fear for your heart."

Eowyn did not try to quell the tears that now slipped down her cheeks and dripped from her chin. "My brother, my last and dearest family, I cannot say how sorry I am that I have hurt you. I cannot explain what it is that drove me to battle, only that I was searching for something. I felt as helpless as you, watching everyone I loved die, watching my land suffer. I began to wonder what curse our house had fallen under, why only misery came on the wind. When Rohan rode to war in Gondor I felt I had to make a choice. If fate wanted another sacrifice, I wanted it to be me. Rohan needs you. And I could not watch you die."

"Life in our world will never be without sacrifice or pain. We cannot know what lies in the future, and it would be folly to lay your life down in hope of appeasing fate. What is, is and what will be, will be." Eomer again grasped Eowyn's chin and raised her face. "I love you, Eowyn. I wish to see you happy and safe. If it truly makes you happy to march to battle and fight then I will not stop you. But I think that your joy truly lies elsewhere. You must choose to find it. Our people have suffered much. No one came to us in our time of need, they left us to die, deeming us unworthy of aid. But when duty called to ride to war to help our fellow man, we rode willingly, even to death. It is my duty and yours to lead our people by example. Would your example be to throw your life away? For your part, you should strive to show the true heart and spirit of the Rohirrim. Rohan has had its fair share of war, sister, and we know well how to fight. But we must also be people of peace and compassion, and it is up to you and I to be the paragon of those things as well."

Eowyn looked at her brother's face with tears shining in her eyes. "Mother and Father would have been proud to have such a wise son, Eomer. It is a new day for us, with the King's passing. I do wish to find new meaning in these days, if we live to see them through. You need not fear for me, brother, for all desire for combat has left me. I am weary of killing. I no longer wish to be an agent of death, but instead to be a preserver of life, and to be the type of woman that our dear mother was. I am done fighting."

Eomer gathered Eowyn to his chest and wrapped his arms around her. They sat together for a long moment, feeling each other's heart beat. Finally Eomer pressed a long kiss to the top of Eowyn's head and disentangled himself from her arms. He knelt in front of her and smoothed her hair away from her face, then whispered. "Farewell my dearest friend. And if I should not return, I ask only one thing. Choose life, Eowyn. Find happiness and love and friendship instead of despair and loneliness. You have earned it." With one last kiss on her forehead, he turned away. He left the room, not looking back.

Dashing tears from her cheeks Eowyn moved to the window and looked out on the darkening sky. Death lurked in the darkness, she knew, but she also held close in her heart the new knowledge that light can drive out the night, if one chooses to wield the torch. As she looked down on the mustering armies in the city below, she vowed silently that she would do her part in driving out the night.


	6. Chapter 6

**Sorry, friends, for the delay in posting. Writer's block to the nth degree, I fear. Please read and review, and if there is a scene you would like to see, please let me know. Perhaps you can jog this wretched block for me. As usual, none of it is mine. Else I would have Faramir fixing my broken garage door opener.**

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Shafts of sun shone through the high windows of the Tower Hall in dust-filled motes, lighting the statues of dead kings in stark relief. The glow warmed the marble floors, sending up glints like sparks as it struck the golden inlays, swathing the room with creamy golden light. But as the light passed on the floors dulled, darkened, shrouding their brilliance in the shadows. They swept across the room, lengthening as the afternoon wore on, creeping ever nearer to the foot of the king's dais.

Faramir sat silently in the gloom, watching the journey of the sun across the vast hall. He sat not in his rightful place, the Seat of the Steward, but in a simple wooden chair, straight-backed and unadorned. His hand lay loosely across his knee, upon which rested the Rod of the Steward, gleaming white against the mirk. His gray eyes roamed the room, resting upon each king's statue in turn. There was Telemnar, his face lined with deep crags and his eyes serious as though remembering the plague that laid low his family and his people. Further on was Ondoher, ever young in his stone facade, his legendary merriment captured by a slight crinkle in the corners of his eyes, ignoring his dark fate at the hands of the Wainriders. _Every face a story, a death, yet who remembers them now, as doom knocks at the gates, _thought Faramir. As his eyes fell finally upon the stern visage of Earnur, last king of Gondor, he thought, _What would Earnur have done in my stead? He would not have sat in gathering darkness, letting his men march away to fight his battle. He would fight like a madman, to his last breath. Maybe even beyond if Lord Aragorn's story of the army of the dead is true._

Faramir did not move even as his ears caught the distant scuff of bootsteps on stone. His heart sank a bit for he wished only to be alone, but the massive doors of the hall swung open, noiseless on their well-kept hinges, and a dark figure stepped in, backlit by the fading afternoon light. Faramir watched wordlessly as Aragorn walked slowly along the row of statues, pausing at each to take in the features of every face, drinking in the images of his ancestors like a man long denied water. As his eyes alit at last upon Earnur, Aragorn broke his silence. "The last of the line of ancient kings. Humiliated by the Witch King, he allowed his pride to drive him to doom, to fight a battle he knew he could not win. He chose to die rather than endure imagined disgrace. He put his own pride ahead of the good of the people, and thus he failed them." Aragorn's eyes never left the dark stone face. "A mark of wisdom is knowing when one must leave conceit behind and do what is best for one's charges."

Faramir quirked a mirthless smile and shook his head slightly. "Man is so smitten with arrogance, is he not? He thinks so highly of himself."

Aragorn's reply was quiet and Faramir had to strain to catch his words. "But by the same token, a man should never short himself. He must know who he is, and be satisfied with it. A man who fears his destiny is useless to everyone." Aragorn was still staring into the face of Earnur, and suddenly Faramir had a strange sense that Aragorn was not referring to him.

Faramir sat mutely for a long moment, his mind racing to the moment that he realized Aragorn's true identity as King of Gondor. It was full of mixed emotion, from sadness to pride to, strangely, relief. He felt as though a load had been lifted, yet that feeling seemed a betrayal to his father. Denethor's truest pride was that he would pass the rule of Gondor to his sons, but Boromir's fall laid a strange and heavy burden upon Faramir. Denethor made it clear that he feared that Faramir was not worthy of the title of Steward, and Aragorn's appearance meant he would never be proven right. Yet being left behind for the final conflict would in some way be an admission of failure, a point that Denethor would have been keen to make. In his mind's eye he could see the look on his father's face, a mix of triumph and loathing. Shaking the image from his head, Faramir broke the heavy silence. "I shall speak plainly, my lord," he said, and marveled at how unfamiliar it was to call anyone but his father lord. "I do not wish to miss this final engagement. To watch my men march away might be more than I could bear. I ask that you allow me to ride forth with you. Do not leave me behind, lord, I beg you."

Aragorn's dark gaze flicked from the statue to Faramir. "Should this battle go ill the people who have been scattered shall need a leader to look to. They shall need a guide in whom they can place their entire trust, for the future shall be dark indeed." His eyes softened slightly but Faramir did not see, for he had cast his gaze again upon the floor. "I have spoken long with the captains of this city. They think highly of you, Faramir, and told me that they would follow you to the gates of Mordor to battle Sauron himself."

"All the more reason for me to ride with you, lord," interrupted Faramir, anguish twisting his mouth. "If I can give them courage for this terrible moment I shall have proven my worth."

Aragorn shook his head. "Yet if the tide turns against men, Sauron shall come to the gates of Gondor. It is then that our people will need their greatest courage, and not only men, but women and children. They shall need you, Captain, in those darkest of moments, for they love you and would follow you wherever you led. I have not yet earned that trust, so your men do not follow me from love, but from duty. But love may save our people, if I fail in my journey. You must stay here, as hard as it seems, in case I fail, for then Gondor's hope lies with you." Aragorn paused, weighing his words. "You will rule Gondor, should I not return. The line of the Stewards must not end with you."

Faramir met Aragorn's eyes, his face grieved but resigned. "I understand my lord. Think not less of me that I pled to ride forth with you. Perhaps Earnur's blood runs somewhere in my veins and my pride would not allow me to see where my true duty lies."

Aragorn smiled. "I would question you if you did not wish to ride with us. But where Earnur failed, you have succeeded, for you understand that the good of the people is higher than your own sense of honor."

Faramir nodded, absently running a hand across his forehead. "What would you have me do, lord?" he asked.

Aragorn's jaw tightened and he lifted his chin. "I would have you take your rightful place, Steward of Gondor." Faramir's face paled and before he could stop himself he shook his head. Aragorn's brow furrowed and he softened his tone. "Your father was a hard man, Faramir. Yes, I did know him, and knew the power of his voice, of his animosity. And Boromir told me of his ill-treatment of you. But you mustn't allow the memory of his disapproval to destroy your spirit. You have the power to be the greatest steward that Gondor has ever seen, if you can unearth your own value in your heart." He paused, searching for words. "I will release you from the post, if you wish it, though it would cause me much regret. But you must remember that the shadow of your past can destroy you, or it can give you strength. You must choose."

Faramir did not stir in his wooden chair, his gaze focused upon some distant point beyond Aragorn's shoulder. His father's face was fixed in his mind, distaste curling his mouth into a sneer of derision, wordlessly proclaiming his disgust with his youngest son, his rage that Faramir should be the one to take up the Rod of the Steward. But with a sudden rush of warmth Faramir's thoughts turned to his brother, his best friend, and the look of pride that he had prized and sought so jealously. A smile tugged his mouth for he could hear Boromir's voice in his head. _Brother, do not be a fool. You know your place and what you must do. You must redeem the memory of our family, for only you could resist the power of the ring, and thus only you remain. Reclaim the honor of our house._

Wordlessly, Faramir rose, pushing the wooden chair away with unfeeling hands. He stood in front of the Seat of the Steward, staring down at it, his soul conflicted. But he summoned again the face of Boromir, turned, and sank slowly into the throne of his father. Aragorn met his eye and nodded, then turned without a word and strode purposefully away, hands locked behind his back, and Faramir suddenly realized with a grim smile that Aragorn's sole purpose in coming to the Hall was to persuade him to take his place on low step of the dais. Faramir leaned back into the seat, the cool of the marble seeping through his tunic, and he surveyed the room from his new perch. It felt odd, but not wrong, and afforded him a new view of the high window at the rear of the room. The last light of the setting sun fingered its way through the leaden glass, casting a last patch of warmth on the stone floor, and it shone like hope.


	7. Chapter 7

**Another chapter so soon, perhaps all is not lost to writer's block. For those who want more Eowyn/Faramir, next chapter is already underway, for your wish is my command. None of them are mine. If they were Merry would be in the kitchen washing my dishes in the altogether. Please read and review.**

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Eowyn stretched luxuriantly under the coverlet then snuggled a bit deeper into the pile of quilts, tucking her chin against a pillow. The pleasurable haze of sleep was still upon her, that space halfway between dream and waking, a blissful forgetfulness of the horror of the past days. But a sharp rap upon her door shattered the peace and she opened her eyes, squinting against the dawn's light. She left the warmth of the bed with regret and a quiet moan of protest, and slipped into her dressing gown. She smoothed at her hair as she shuffled barefoot to the door, and opened it to see Eomer standing there, girded for battle. His helm was beneath his arm, and his sword hung at his side, gleaming in the light. Eowyn's stomach twisted in her and she stared at her brother, dread upon her for the moment she had feared had come. "Brother," she said quietly.

Eomer glanced over his shoulder into the corridor then stepped into the room and shut the door softly. "Eowyn," he replied and they stood wordlessly, staring at one another. After an infinite moment Eowyn reached her hand out and twined her fingers into his, drinking in the feeling of his huge palm engulfing hers. They silently looked at one another, taking in every feature of the other's face as though they would never look upon the other again. Finally Eowyn tugged at Eomer's hand, feeling suddenly like a young child again, leading her older brother, her protector and friend, to some secret bounty. She sat upon the edge of the bed and pulled him to her side. Eomer's armor seemed as a shield between them, not allowing her to feel his warmth or touch his skin and Eowyn stifled a shiver. The hush was thick and she could hear the quiet song of a single bird outside her window, but still she did not speak, for she felt that to break that silence would bring the pain of loneliness and helplessness that she had so long quailed from.

"We ride within the hour," Eomer said quietly, and Eowyn felt her heart sink still further. "The men are mustered and await only orders to move out. But certainly I could not leave without saying farewell." Eowyn tried to reply but no words would come to her, so she only bit the inside of her mouth and gripped Eomer's hand more tightly. Eomer took a deep breath and squeezed her fingers back. "I shall not say do not worry, but do not weep, sister, for this is the hour in which men will battle for their future. It is not in vain that we go to war. It is in the days to come that Rohan shall prove her worth." A note of pride crept into Eomer's voice, and Eowyn felt a sudden fear that he would throw his life away in foolish valor.

Eowyn shook her head and sighed. "I shall not weep yet, for I do know that this sacrifice is not in vain. I cannot deny the pride I feel in our people, for they have not quailed in the face of this dreadful responsibility. Indeed, they have risen to it with eagerness and courage. Let no one say that the Rohirrim shrink from battle, least of all their king." She paused, the corners of her mouth pinching. "Do try to come back to me, Eomer. Do what you must but pray do not be foolhardy. I do not know if I could bear your loss."

Eomer turned to her and looked piercingly into her eyes. "Come with me," he said quietly, "I want to show you something." He stepped to the door and paused while she donned her slippers, then led her out into the gardens. The dawning sun sent fingerling rays of warm light across the stone retaining wall, turning the cold white stone to a buttery gold and setting the dewy grass asparkle. A wind gusted across the city, rustling the leaves of the trees and setting standards cracking. The pair stepped to the wall and looked out across the city as day took tremulous hold, scattering shadows before it. Below, upon the field of Pelennor, Eowyn could see the tiny massed figures, thousands upon thousands, seven times over, morphing slowly from small knots of men into straight lines and columns, order from chaos. No sound reached the high peak where she stood but Eowyn imagined the ripples of sound washing up on the wind, the excited cries of horses as they danced sideways, of men cinching tight their armor, of voices murmuring in hushed anticipation. "It is so quiet," she breathed, her own voice lost in the gale.

"The sound of war begins as a breath, a whisper, before it grows to the thunder," said Eomer. "Look long upon our people, Eowyn. Their bravery can be seen in the order, for they know well that they are marching for doom. Though my pride in our folk has always been strong, these days have given me new joy, for none can now say that Rohan is backward, and nor are we weak." Eowyn looked upon her brother and could see shining in his eyes a great swell of honor. "Rohan has risen anew from the decay birthed by the dotage of Theoden. It is a new day." Eomer turned to Eowyn and took her chin in her hand. "If I do not return, sister, it is not from foolhardy courage, but because this battle shall be like none ever fought. I shall fight to return to you, but if I do not, you must remember that it falls to you to tend our people, to urge them on to greater success. But most of all I beg you, do not succumb again to that dark despair, that hopeless void, into which the Worm cast you."

Eowyn nodded, blinking once as she felt a sheen of tears slick across her eyes. "It was a lesson well learned, Eomer, and an error that shall not be repeated. I shall remember that light and joy shall someday dawn upon our lands again, and I will find the strength to wait upon it." Eowyn shivered as she repeated Faramir's words to her, spoken nights ago in the depths of her despair, and she marveled at the odd leap in her stomach as she recalled the gentle touch of his hand against her face.

Eomer gusted a sigh that seemed dredged from his boots and laid his hand upon Eowyn's shoulder. "Then I must say farewell, beloved sister. If I do not return, think fondly on me, but do not despair. Know that I loved you with all my being, and that I fought and died for your future and the future of our people."

"And take my love along with you as you ride," replied Eowyn, her chest hitching with an impending sob.

Eomer hesitated for an instant, then enfolded Eowyn in his bearlike arms, crushing her to his chest. "I love you," he whispered against her hair, his warm breath brushing her cheek. With a shuddering breath of his own he released her, bending to press a kiss against her forehead. He then turned and walked quickly from the garden, his shoulders hunched against the press of the wind. He did not look back, for if he had Eowyn would have seen the tracks of tears on his face.


	8. Chapter 8

**As usual, not mine. Special note to the lovely (ha) lad who continues to email me complaining that this story is altered canon...I have read LOTR and its associated books at least twenty, probably closer to thirty times in my life. Fanfiction is, by general nature, always slightly off canon. Just because my stories may stray a bit from Tolkien's work doesn't mean that I'm a "moron" who has not read and researched the books. So I would thank you to keep your "constructive criticism" where it belongs, in reviews and not in personal emails. To those who are reviewing, bless you and thank you for your kind words and input. And now, back by popular demand, I present...**

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Eowyn did not know how long she stood, gazing upon the mustered men below, watching the glint of sun on armor, the practiced movement of men in their columns. From her giddy height the men of Gondor were indistinguishable from the men of Rohan, and she felt a sudden pang of sympathy and care for Gondor. She had long thought them aloof and condescending, a race of lordly men whose sovereignty had decayed along with the crumbling walls of their cities. But as she looked down upon the five levels of the city spread below her, her heart bled for their suffering. _They are not so different from us,_ she thought. _Their blood flows as readily as our own, and the cries of widows and orphans shall always cut to the bone, no matter where their loyalty may lie._

A shift of movement, soft as a breeze, brushed Eowyn's side. She turned to see Faramir standing there, staring down at the field of men and horses. He was dressed in the livery of the Guard of the Citadel and the silver emblem on his chest flashed in the morning sun. His gray eyes were fixed upon the army below and there was a strange mix of sadness and hope upon his face. He was clean-shaven and his hair was gathered back with a leather thong, and Eowyn suddenly realized how lordly he looked standing there, surveying the city below. She gathered her robe more closely around herself, supremely aware of the filmy fabric of the nightgown beneath it.

"It comes to the moment that we both have dreaded, my lady," Faramir said softly, and Eowyn suppressed a shiver at the low music of his voice. "We are left behind." Eowyn followed his gaze back down to the great plain below where the legion was disappearing, shrouded by cloud of dust kicked up by thousands of feet as they marched along toward fate. "But I have realized that it could not be any other way, for you are not well enough to ride to battle, and I too am still weary and in pain." Eowyn raised an eyebrow at his admission and glanced at his face, taking in for the first time the circles under his eyes and the pinched corners of his mouth. "The Lord Aragorn was right to ride on without us." He paused, then said with the slightest hint of a smile, "I know now how the womenfolk have felt for these many ages, only able to watch in helplessness, unable to do anything but hope."

"You would be startled, perhaps, to know how much the womenfolk can do in these times. We are healers and keepers of the watch. We take up the plough in the field, and sometimes the sword as nightfall brings the dangers of darkness. War does not come only to the battlefield, lord. It comes also to the home and hearth, the stable and the bedchamber." She stopped, weighing her words, unsure whether to continue, but the need to speak her feelings outweighed her sense of discomfort. "For my part I am glad that you are not well enough to ride. Not that I wish you ill health," she hastily added, "but it is a comfort to have someone here as I begin the long wait for word of our fortune."

Faramir quirked a gentle smile and looked away from Eowyn to hide the flush in his cheeks. His eyes scanned the garden, senses suddenly alerted by the distant murmur of voices. On a far-off parapet he spotted two small figures, backlit by the sun, watching the war-party as it marched on. He touched Eowyn's shoulder and gestured, saying quietly, "There are Beregond's son and your hobbit friend."

Eowyn brightened at mention of Merry and turned to look, but the pair were too far off for her to make out. "Your ranger eyes astound me, my lord." She stopped, eyebrows furrowing. "The poor lad, watching his friends leave without him."

"From what I understand of Hobbits, he can hardly be considered a lad. But they are astounding, are they not? Such innocence, yet such courage," said Faramir, fondness and wonder mingling in his voice, and his chest constricted to think of Frodo and his servant Samwise, somewhere in the dead, ravaged wilderness of Mordor.

"Indeed. I owe my life to Meriadoc's bravery." She gave a little sigh. "I weep for him, for his lost innocence. I fear that he shall never be the same."

Faramir's reply stilled and silenced her. "I fear that none of us shall."

They stood together, wordless, the only sound the musical chirrup of birds as they flitted through the garden. A veil of dust had risen to hide the mass of men as they marched eastward, a silent brown cloud the only mark of their passing. Deep within Eowyn wanted to strain for sight of her brother but she knew it was hopeless, so she instead fixed her eyes upon the western sky, as though salvation would come winging on the horizon. But Eomer's face kept springing unbidden to her mind, and her gaze was constantly drawn back to the sight of the retreating men, and without intending to she whispered his name.

Faramir lowered his chin and sought her eyes, his brow softening as he saw the slick of tears there. "We can but wait, my lady. I know that he will do all he can to return, for his love for you is strong. And if he does not return I know that he shall love you from beyond death, for the love of a brother cannot be destroyed, by death or by design." Eowyn's lower lip quivered as she fought back her tears, and Faramir's heart twinged with sorrow for her pain. In his own mind he saw Boromir, his own brother, as clearly as he had in his dreadful vision, white-faced and solemn in a delicate elven boat, drifting on to the wilderness, his noble visage undiminished by wound or decay.

Eowyn broke his reverie with quiet words, spoken with a forlorn air. "I do not know if you had occasion to speak with my brother, or if you know of him by reputation. But despite his noble bearing and his lordly words, he is to me mostly still a brother. It was he who taught me to ride." A smile ghosted across her face as memory washed over her. "He put me on a horse when I was but four years old and rode behind me, teaching me how to handle the reins, how to guide the horse. He pored over maps with me, teaching me the lay of our land, the far reaches of Rohan, so that we could ride without fear of losing our way. He even taught me to wield a sword. We spent many hours together in our young years, driving our care-wardens mad with our constant wandering. But he changed when my father died. Eomer was but nine years. He took it into his mind that he was the man of the home and had no more time for foolish adventures. But he was always there, looking after me and picking me up if I fell. His banishment nearly broke me for I was left alone with my uncle, who no longer recognized me, and with the traitor Grima." She gave an involuntary shiver. "If Eomer should die, Lord Faramir, I shall be the last of my line. I shall have no one left, no one to pick me up when I fall."

Faramir looked down at Eowyn's face with a saddened mien. "You know that I, too, am the last of my line, Lady. Your memories of Eomer are much the same as mine of Boromir, for we were inseparable as well, and he was my teacher in many things." He gently took her hand and clasped it in his own. "I cannot say that the pain passes, for I shall feel the pain of his loss for the remainder of my days. But the pain changes, and somehow you find a way to live on, remembering and mourning, but living still. And, after time, you can even feel joy in the midst of those memories." Faramir looked out over the city, at the decay, the destruction, marked here and there by brilliant splashes of green and gold, the gardens of the city which had somehow survived the holocaust. "And as for someone to pick you up when you fall..." He groped for words. "I hope that you shall look beyond your brother for that."

At his soft voice a wave of fear and pain washed over Eowyn, her chest seizing with a pang and a choked sob. She turned and buried her face in Faramir's chest, seeking his warm embrace, desperate for the feeling of safety she knew his arms could bring. He did not disappoint her, wrapping his arms around her back and pressing her closer, and he rested his cheek atop her head. Her breath brushed his throat and he closed his eyes, his heart beating an odd tattoo in his chest. He felt a strange melancholy, for it seemed a betrayal to be seeking happiness so close upon the heels of the deaths of his father and brother, yet the feeling of this willowy woman in his arms, needing him, was a wonder that he could not ignore. Eyes still shut, his cheek pressed against her golden hair, he could only think the words that he wished to say. _Do not fear, my lady, my gentle, broken lady. I shall not let you fall._


	9. Chapter 9

**I know it has been a while since my last update...alas, for the burdens of workaday life and the drama therein. Hope this slakes your thirst, and hopefully more will follow shortly. To all who have read and reviewed, bless you for your kind words. And as always, none of them are mine. Otherwise I should have Denethor changing my flat tire at the moment.**

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Her hands moved of their own accord, folding, smoothing and crimping, picking at small stitches and creasing the fabric with her fingers. The gown, a feather soft green velvet that brushed her skin like the spring wind, had been delivered by a young page along with a scrap of parchment with a handwritten scrawl_. With my great esteem, Faramir._ But Eowyn's illness had slimmed her body and left the dress hanging on her like a barley sack. Eowyn absentmindedly took in the waist, stitching with practiced movements, barely aware of the action. Her wandering thoughts were quickly remedied as the needle stabbed deep into her thumb. With a little yelp she thrust her hand to her mouth, sucking the offended digit and cursing her inattention. Her cry roused the healer Ioreth, who was dozing by the fire. The old woman had been rolling bandages, but it had not taken long before the soft snores issued forth and a half finished bundle of bandage rolled from her hands to trail across the stone floor. "Are you quite well my lady?" Ioreth asked, the corners of her mouth working to stifle a yawn.

"Merely a needle prick, Ioreth." Eowyn set the dress aside, smoothing her hand over the soft folds of the skirt with a little sigh. A bead of blood was rising on her thumb and she watched it with detached interest as it grew into a shining orb of crimson and slid with a tickle down into her palm. She picked up a scrap of bandage and wrapped her hand, pulling it tighter than need be and watching as the tip of her thumb turned purple. As she stared at her hand a knock sounded at the door.

Ioreth stood and groaned as her joints popped audibly. "Never grow old, Lady Eowyn. It is a curse," muttered the old woman. She wrenched the door open with a sour look as if she were prepared to berate the poor soul who forced her out of her chair. A young page stood there, quaking under the angry gaze of the healer. He sputtered quietly, twisting his hands together, and murmured something to Ioreth, who nodded and shut the door without any further ado. A smile creased her face, digging furrows in her cheeks and around her eyes. "You'd best finish taking in that gown, my lady."

"I have only a few more stitches, Ioreth. Why should I hurry?" Eowyn's stomach made a funny flip, for she imagined that she knew the reason.

"The Lord Faramir has requested that you join him for dinner. He shall be by in fifteen minutes to fetch you." Ioreth gave an unladylike snort. "Leave it to a man to expect a lady to be ready to dine in only fifteen minutes." Ioreth darted to Eowyn's bed with a speed that belied her age and snatched up the dress. "Let me finish it, I'll be quicker." Eowyn couldn't suppress a smile as the old woman began to stab at the dress with the needle and thread, muttering under her breath.

Eowyn's heart beat quicker as she stepped to the looking glass, pulling her hair back to the nape of her neck. A flush in her cheeks startled her and she berated herself silently. _Stupid girl. Your lesson was not learned that the pity of a noble man does not mean love. _Her brow furrowed and she quashed the inner voice. "I've earned the right to seek some happiness."

"I beg your pardon, lady?" Ioreth's voice startled Eowyn and she shook her head.

"It is nothing. But we must hurry if I am to be ready for Lord Faramir." Eowyn twisted her hair into a bun and secured it with a dark green ribbon, leaving a few soft strands to curl around her chin. Ioreth continued to murmur to herself and bit off the thread as she finished stitching. Eowyn stepped into the gown, shivering as Ioreth buttoned her into the buttery cloth that draped her figure in soft velvet shadows. The old woman circled her, brushing at the skirt and tugging the bodice, fretting and chuckling like a hen and Eowyn smiled again, for she could not remember the last time anyone fussed over her, mothered her.

Ioreth clucked her tongue. "Look at your hands, my lady." She ran her fingers over Eowyn's bruised knuckles and torn fingernails. "You really must try to take more care. A lady's hands must be soft, unblemished by work or battle. Yours look as though you have been mucking stalls." She hobbled to the mantle and retrieved a glass jar filled with salve. She dipped some out and began massaging it into Eowyn's hands with her knotted, arthritic fingers. A knock at the door made Eowyn jump but Ioreth did not release her grasp. "Patience. A lady does not leap to the bidding of a man. She makes him leap to hers."

A slow smile spread across Eowyn's face and a laugh pressed within her chest. "I never had a woman to teach me these things, dear Ioreth. I am clumsy and dull when it comes to matters of courting."

Ioreth had a smile of her own, and it was knowing and wry. "So you are courting Lord Faramir, are you?" Eowyn's brow furrowed and Ioreth patted her hand. "That is not a bad thing my lady. You have chosen well, and if all goes as I hope you shall dash the hopes of many maidens of Gondor." Her tone softened. "He is a good man, gentle and wise. You should count yourself blessed."

"I will count myself blessed when this war is over and the uncertainty of these times is gone. The future seems so far away and I feel such guilt for spending time thinking on...well...on romance, when men are fighting and dying." Eowyn blushed and dropped her eyes. "It is frivolous to spend time thinking on love."

One of Ioreth's eyebrows quirked and her mouth tightened at the corners. "Of all the things in this world worth spending time on, love is the most important. It is the one thing that can save men from darkness. You should not deny yourself the chance for happiness, for if there was more real love in the world, we would need not fight so hard to survive."

Eowyn's heart gave a leap and her chin puckered. "You are so wise Ioreth. Would that you were with me before now."

Ioreth made a noise of derision. "It is no ancient wisdom, young one. I speak as one who has seen many years, and has seen many trials. My one regret is not seizing love when I had the chance." She took Eowyn's face in her hands. "Do not make my mistake, lady. Seize your moment." With that she released Eowyn and gestured toward the door. "There is a fine line between making a man leap to your whim and being rude." A laugh bubbled from Eowyn and she grasped Ioreth's hands briefly, then turned to answer the door. A deep breath, then she swung the door open to reveal her suitor.

Faramir's gray eyes took her in, from tip to toe, and a little sigh escaped him. "My lady, you look exquisite." Eowyn blushed and dipped her chin. "I am so grateful that you deign to join me." He offered his arm, clad in a shirt of midnight, embroidered at the cuffs with thread only barely lighter, leaving the shadow of the tree of Gondor upon his wrists. As Eowyn took his elbow in her hand she nodded to Ioreth, who was staring unabashedly at the two of them. Faramir inclined his head at her with a half-suppressed smile, and led Eowyn out into the evening.

"She is a treasure, is she not?" said Faramir quietly. There was a gentle fondness in his voice. "She has been here at the houses since she was very young, and always had much to say about everything. But her heart has always belonged to this place, and to being a healer."

"Then she never wed?" Eowyn felt a twinge of sadness for the old woman. "Surely she wished to."

"She found her only love in being a healer. She wished only to be able to ease suffering, from wounded soldiers to the ailing elders. She did it all, and is much beloved by all who have had the fortune of the touch of her hands, and all the more by those who have been lashed by her tongue." Faramir laughed, for he obviously was speaking from experience.

Eowyn hesitated, then halted with her hand on Faramir's arm. "Do you think, Lord Faramir, that it is more noble to risk all in battle than to stand in safety and lay healing hands upon the wounded?"

Faramir looked down at her with gentle eyes, and there was deeper understanding reflected within them. "My lady, courage does not always roar. Sometimes it is saying in a quiet voice that you shall never give in, and will fight in every way that you can." He clasped her hand. "And as for the healers, my heart says that to bear the pain of another is nobler indeed than marching to war. You trust your fate to others and in return you strive to be their salvation and their comfort. That faith is to be esteemed above all valor."

Eowyn's hands absentmindedly drifted to the flowing skirt of her dress, fingering the velvet softness, worrying the fabric with her touch. Faramir scanned her face, eyes knowing, and dropped his own hand to twine his fingers in hers, and quietly repeated, "Above valor, my lady."


	10. Chapter 10

**Sorry for the short chapter, but wanted to update, let you know I'm still working on this. Thanks to all for the reviews, your kind hearts are appreciated. As always, it all belongs to JRRT. For the uninitiated, Menelmacar is the constellation Orion. It was hung by Varda in preparation for the awakening of the elves, and it forebodes the last battle. Valacirca is the Big Dipper.**

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The moon was the color of ivory as its cold light shimmered across the pale stone of the cobbles. There was a sweet smelling breeze, warm and gentle, like silken fingers that stir the hair. Eowyn drank it in like a parched desert traveler, storing in her mind the feeling that throbbed in her chest. She noted the softness of Faramir's sleeve beneath her fingers, the warmth of his arm as she tucked her hand into the crook of his elbow. He tilted his head to meet her eyes and smiled, the corners of his eyes crinkling and little furrows of happiness creasing around his mouth. Yet they did not speak, instead strolling in silence along the turreted walls of the uppermost circle of the city, taking in the night. Above, the stars were crisp, bright diamonds against the ebony sky, Menelmacar shining strong in the North. Their feet aimlessly led them to the prow of the city, where the night spread out like a parchment.

Faramir turned to her, a small smile on his lips, and proffered forth a scrap of folded parchment. With questioning eyes Eowyn opened it and found inside a pair of glistening opal disks, smooth as river washed pebbles. "What are they?" She spoke quietly, for it seemed shameful to disturb the peace of the night with her words.

Faramir plucked one up with his fingers. "They were my favorite when I was a lad. And they still are, I suppose I must admit." He delicately touched the disk to Eowyn's lips. She took it into her mouth and started as the taste of sugar spread across her tongue. An odd tang pursed her lips into a pucker, and Faramir let out a laugh.

"What is it?" The flavor was sweet, yet with a pungent piquancy that tingled at the sides of her mouth.

"It is orange." Eowyn looked askance at Faramir, and he gestured away south. "It is a fruit that grows by the sea, in the warmer regions. It does not thrive here, so these sweets are not easy to come by, but when I saw them I had to have some." He turned to survey the sky. "It's odd, but just the taste of them reminds me of being young." He took the other candy from the paper and placed it on his tongue with an air of ceremony, then took a deep and satisfied breath. "Foolish."

"Not at all, Lord." Faramir nodded and smiled. To Eowyn's surprise, he suddenly moved from her side and sat on the cobbles at the edge of the escarpment, gesturing for her to join him. In her mind she could see Ioreth's look of scorn and disapproval, but the sight of Faramir's offered hand swayed her, and she gathered her skirts around her to sink to a seat at his side. He was gathering a pile of small white pebbles in front of him. She moved closer to see, and the warmth of the breeze mingled with the warmth of his body as she leaned near. Faramir picked up one of the stones, tipping his palm to show her. Then, with a smirk, he raised his hand and pitched the pebble over the precipice. They leaned forward together to watch it sail down and bounce off the edge of a crumbling parapet two levels below and into the crags of the cliff. Faramir let out a bark of disappointed laughter, then pressed a stone into Eowyn's palm.

"When we were lads, Boromir and I often came here at night, when the city was quiet. We pitched target practice into that abandoned watchtower. Boromir always used to say that it built coordination for archery, but I knew it was just a reason for us to spend time together without father standing over us." Faramir smiled at the memory, and for the first time since Eowyn had laid eyes on him there was no hidden sadness in his gaze. "Then one night we discovered that father had posted a sentry in that tower, to better watch the northern boundaries. Boromir's first stone struck that guard square on his helmet. We heard the clang all the way up here." Eowyn laughed, covering her mouth with her hand, feeling the cool of the stone still in her grasp. "Father tried to put an end to our midnight adventures, but we found other mischief to cause. We were quite the pair, my brother and I."

Eowyn smiled gently, and leaned forward again. The drop below her made her stomach squirm, but she locked her eyes upon the watchtower and let her own stone fly. It dropped silently onto the tower, bouncing twice before rolling to rest. Faramir laughed and raised his arm, almost clapping her upon the back before catching himself and flushing slightly. "Well done, my lady. You have a wonderful eye for aim." He fell silent and they sat, saying nothing, staring out at the jeweled night sky as the wind tousled through their hair.

Eowyn lifted her chin, savoring the whisper-soft touch of the evening breeze as it stirred the hair at the nape of her neck. Her eyes sought the North, where Valacirca circled low in the sky. "The Sickle of the Valar," she said softly, reaching out her hand to point, as if to caress the distant points of light with her fingers. "Many nights I saw it from the dais at Edoras, circling beyond Fangorn, ever present, and dreamed of what lay out there, under that sky."

"It was said of old that the Seven Stars are sparks from the forge of Aule." Faramir's eyes were clear and hopeful, shining in the light of the moon. "But it is also said that they were hung in the North by Varda as a sign, foretelling the fall of Morgoth. Beren sang of it as he despaired in Sauron's pits, for it reminded him ever of Elbereth and her promise that evil would not prevail." Eowyn's sight was suddenly blurred and the stars softened into pearls of light in a dark velvet sky. Faramir turned to her, and his brow furrowed in care as a tear began a slow journey over the apple of Eowyn's cheek. With his thumb he smoothed it away, his hand lingering upon her jaw, and he marveled at the softness of her skin. "Do not despair, Lady Eowyn. All is not lost, and we cannot see what will come with the dawn." His voice was soft and gentle, husky yet full of unspoken feeling.

Eowyn raised her hand and rested it upon his own, pressing his palm to her face. "I do not weep from fear, Lord, nor from despair. These tears are born of hope, for how could anyone look upon Elbereth's ancient promise and not be moved?" A slow smile crossed Faramir's face, and his heart leapt at the feel of Eowyn's hand upon his own. "I cannot begin to tell you what your companionship has meant to me in these days." She paused, her eyes still shining with unshed tears. "Yet more than companion, I call you friend."

Faramir gazed upon her, taking in her face, memorizing the way the wind sent her hair fluttering over his hand. "That means more to me than I can tell, Eowyn, for I have wished for your friendship since I first saw you in the Gardens." He fell silent, unable to speak as his heart pounded in his chest. Eowyn dipped her head and her lips brushed his palm as more tears dropped from her eyes, staining the sleeve of Faramir's tunic. At her touch, soft as satin, Faramir shivered and his breath caught in his chest. He clenched his other hand tightly against his leg, denying the urge to reach up and caress the other side of Eowyn's face, fighting the desire to capture her lips with his own. "I esteem you above all, my Lady, and wish you all joy." He paused, searching for words, calming his breath. "Hope is a choice that we must make every day, knowingly, willingly. I pray that you will continue to choose it as we face these final days." Faramir dropped his eyes and squeezed them tightly shut, for what he wished to say was, _Choose me, my lady! Choose me in these final days..._

But he spoke no more, but instead twined his fingers with Eowyn's and clasped her hand tightly in his own. Together they watched the stars wheel overhead and the moon journey across the sky, and there were no words needed between them as the evening waned into morning.


	11. Chapter 11

**Well, I'm back, to quote a certain hobbit. You wouldn't believe the drama that has occurred since last I updated. Suffice to say that my description of the Black Breath below sort of covers how I've been feeling in the past few months. But I'm back now, and waiting for hope. As always, thanks to all for your kind reviews, and so sorry to keep you waiting for this new chapter. I will be updating more often now, knock on wood. Also, if there's anything you'd like to see in this fic, feel free to let me know. Nudges to the muse are always appreciated. ****Also, none of them belong to me. If they did, these past months would not have been so awful, for I would have hobbits to snuggle.**

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The morning light shone through the arched window, slashing across Merry's waking eyes with a painful ache. He squinted and dragged his hand across his face, forcing himself to sit up despite the shooting pain in his arm. It was silent, the absence of sound palpable and heavy. A kettle was simmering on the grate, and a plate of cold meat and rough bread was set upon the hearth, covered by a thin cloth. Merry made a quick assessment and found that his stomach was still queasy, rolling slightly at the thought of a heavy meal, so he palmed a slice of the bread and covered the rest. _Perhaps Pip will finish it when he comes._ Then a pang of realization struck him like a bolt. Pip was gone, marching away with the armies of Gondor and Rohan. Merry dropped the bread to the stone floor and grasped at his arm, trying to quell the fear that was gnawing his chest. Never had he felt so alone, so empty, even when he was bumping along behind Dernhelm on the way to Gondor. At least then he had known that Pippin was safe in Gandalf's care. Now, he felt only desolation and loneliness.

With painful clarity, Merry recalled standing upon a parapet of the city with young Bergil, watching with silent dread as the armies mustered to march east, into the jaws of Mordor, on a mission they well knew was doomed to fail. Somewhere in the back of his mind, Merry marveled at the courage of men, as they bore up under the knowledge that they were sacrificing themselves on the alter of futility. But more he was struck by the courage of Pippin, riding out to represent the people of the Shire, a tiny emissary off to war. Tears pushed at the backs of Merry's eyes, but he growled them away, grasping his injured arm, squeezing the flesh to bring on a flare of pain, to drown the terror. The walls seemed to be closing in, and with a strangled gasp, Merry stumbled to the door, and out into the garden.

The light struck him full force, making him squint and raise his hand against his eyes. He staggered to the parapet wall and bent double, laying his forehead against the cool stone, trying to quell the fear that was churning his insides. He retched once, and was vaguely glad that he had foregone the cold breakfast. The rolling in his stomach subsided slowly, receding to the occasional twinge, but he left his head resting on the wall, unwilling to raise his eyes to the vista of Pellenor below.

A heavy hand on his shoulder startled him, and the sudden movement sent a pang through his skull, an electric shock, and he bit down against a moan. With a clumsy movement he turned, knocking the hand away, and opened his eyes to see Faramir standing before him, looking pale and grim. Merry bowed his head slightly, closing his eyes and pursing his mouth. "I am sorry, Faramir. You startled me." The man smiled without mirth, shaking his own head.

"You need not apologize, Master Merry. I stole up on you, I should have announced myself." Faramir leaned against the parapet, taking care not to put undue weight upon his own injured arm. "I saw you standing here alone, and was worried that you had taken ill."

"I'll admit, I feel poorly," replied Merry, swallowing against a new wave of bile in his throat. "I felt perhaps I just needed some fresh air."

"Or perhaps you wished to look to the East, as I, in hopes of some glimpse of good or ill." Faramir's gray eyes were fixed on the red gloom that hovered over the mountains of Mordor, the swirling crimson clouds that hid the faces of the cliffs in shadow. "I could have never known what a trial it would be to stay behind while all others marched away." His gaze turned vacant. "The terror of battle pales beside the terror of helplessness."

Merry's chest hitched as he had a sudden vision of Pippin in the roiling chaos of war, with the blood and the noise and the fear in the eyes of men. Tears pushed at the back of his eyes and he dashed at them with his hands, willing himself not to weep like a child in front of Faramir. His heart seemed to clench in his chest and his chin puckered, for he could not force down the thought of his beloved cousin amid that terrible whirlwind. "Is there no hope, then?" he choked out.

Faramir did not spare him a glance, but instead stared out over the vista before them. "I will not say that hope is lost, Master Hobbit. Not so long as men march forth to meet the storm. As long as we rise to fight, there is still hope."

Merry felt his throat constrict, and though he did not wish to seem weak, he whispered, "I cannot see it, Faramir. The black breath has stolen every glimpse of cheer or hope, and I don't know if I will ever be able to find it again." This time Faramir did turn to look down at him, his mouth set in a sad line.

"Tell me, Master Merry, of the black shadow." Faramir's tone was plaintive, his brow furrowed. "Few who fall under it find the strength to survive. How is it that you battled back that darkness?"

Merry bit the side of his mouth, fear creeping over him at the mere mention of that dread darkness. But Faramir's gray gaze was pleading, and Merry could not find the strength to refuse, for he sensed that Faramir was asking not about him, but about Eowyn. "First, it is as though a chill has come over your bones, an ache that burns your marrow. It's like all the cold, bitter nights you've ever felt, all at once, when your muscles freeze and clench until you cannot bear the pain, cannot even move." Merry's eyes filled again, and he did not try this time to halt the fall of his tears. "The pain does not fade, but is joined by terror, every fear you've ever known, all at once, one on top of another. The dread of death pales beside this horror, and you beg for it, for an end to the hurt and the fright, and the sadness. I never could have imagined that sadness, that desolation, the complete lack of hope for tomorrow. You pray only for oblivion, to end the pain and find peace." Merry's voice faltered and broke, and he dropped his chin against his chest, his thoughts going again to Pippin, to his cousin who was marching to meet that fear, that pain. "Even now I feel that joy will never brighten my soul again. It is lost."

Faramir's own face was drawn, and he laid his hand on Merry's shoulder. "I am sorry, Master Merry, for asking you to live that pain again. It was heartless of me to ask it of you, only to assuage my own doubts and curiosities. It is just that it is a wonder to me that so small a person should fight off that horror, that evil that has cost countless men their lives."

Merry lifted his face to meet Faramir's eyes. "I just kept thinking of Pippin. I couldn't leave him alone, as much as I wanted to give in and end the pain. I had to fight, for him. I promised I would bring him home, and I would not leave him." Speaking his cousin's name made Merry's throat constrict with an impending sob, but he swallowed it down. "But if it weren't for Strider, I wouldn't still be here. I am, after all, still only a hobbit, and could not have held on forever, Pippin or no."

Faramir hesitated, not wishing to lay his heart bare, but then plunged forward, consequence be damned. "Merry, you rode long with the Lady Eowyn, and seem to me as close as any to her heart. She, too, fell before the Black Breath, and was healed by the Lord Aragorn, but what bade her fight as you did to survive? She seems to me so sad, so weary, yet something must have given her the strength to carry on until she could be tended by the King. What could it be?"

Merry shook his head slightly, his own eyes saddened. "I don't know, Faramir. While I have been blessed to know Lady Eowyn well, I cannot say what hope she found in the darkness." He continued more quietly, as though to himself. "I wish only happiness for Eowyn, yet I do not know that she shall find it. I weep for her despair, and hope that she finds what she is looking for." Merry fell silent, biting back his own conflicted feelings for the lady, rubbing a weary palm over his eyes, dashing the salt tears across his cheeks.

"It wounds my soul to think of the Lady Eowyn battling back the pain and despair that you have spoken of. I only wish I could take that desolation from her spirit, bring her some joy, help her to forget all that has come before." Merry glanced up at Faramir, and the man was staring far off, speaking not to the hobbit but to himself. "Such beauty, yet such sorrow." New tears came to Merry's eyes, but he blinked them away, and stood silent next to the tall Ranger, gazing out over the walls of the city to the far desolation beyond, waiting for hope to come.


	12. Chapter 12

**Very short chapter, I know, but you guys deserve it for waiting patiently while I got myself together. As always, not mine.**

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The afternoon was casting a soft glow over the garden grass, a pale golden light that tinged the white stone walls an amber hue. If Eowyn looked to the south rather than the east, she could almost forget the ghastly crimson clouds that whirled and circled above the mountains, so near. So she kept her back to the black mountains, instead casting her gaze to the south, where far beyond the sea lapped at the shores, where the monuments of Numenor crumbled in the salt air. She closed her eyes and tipped her chin upward, testing the air, trying to imagine the wilds of Rohan, the vast grassland that she was so suddenly longing for.

Though during the reign of The Worm, she had been largely alone, Eowyn had at least had the shell of her uncle, and the occasionally ghost of her brother to keep her company. There were friendly faces in the Court of the King, though sadness at his dotage marred their eyes. But here, in this cold, monumental city, in a land as foreign to her as Mordor itself, Eowyn realized that she was more alone than she ever thought possible.

Perhaps it was watching her people march eastward that spawned this realization, and she felt that she was now the sole denizen of Rohan here in this empty city. In her mind she knew that her people were here, laid in neat lines in the corridors of the Houses of Healing, but in her heart, she was desolate. Gone the King, gone her brother, gone the stalwart captains of her people. Now there was only the infirmed, the damaged, the dying. And the Lady, silent and pale in the dying afternoon light.

Though her eyes were still closed, Eowyn could hear soft bootsteps in the grass, swishing across the green expanse toward her. She dropped her chin to her chest, conflicted, wanting to be alone, yet wanting someone to gather her close and protect her. A form, tall, steadfast, strong, stopped at her side. He did not touch her, but she could feel him next to her, feel the warmth radiating from his body. She did not need to open her eyes to know who had joined her in the gardens, in the afternoon light. She knew that she did not need to speak for him to know her pain.

The light on her closed eyes turned her vision gold and rose, and she finally opened them, gazing down upon the city spread below them, another monument of the Men of Numenor, hewn by sheer force of will from the bones of the earth. The Men of Gondor must have that strength still, deep down, she thought, to stand and stare into the face of Mordor, knowing that they will be the first to fall. This city would crumble, too, ground to dust, but the Men of Gondor would not. They may scatter, blown by war's winds, but they would never bow. Their bones were the bones of the earth, and would not be easily broken. Eowyn stretched out with her feelings, soaking in the sensation of this Man of Gondor, earth's bones, standing silent at her side.

The heat of his fever drove Faramir to action. He could no longer lay abed, feeling his body rebel against him, and he pushed his healer aside with more roughness than he intended. He needed to feel the wind on his parched, burning skin, needed to escape the cage of the sickbed. He stumbled once as he entered the garden and slowed, willing his body to obey his commands. The grass was soft beneath his boots, and he closed his eyes, taking a deep breath of the lilac-scented air. When he opened them, a sudden pang gripped his chest as he spotted Eowyn standing alone, solitary, her hair shining in the dying light of the afternoon.

He did not speak as he reached her side, for he did not wish to break the spell, the silent stillness that comes as afternoon turns to evening, that quiet moment when time seems to halt, to freeze in a golden vista. Instead, he just stood, watching her. Her eyes closed against the sky, lines creasing her forehead, her mouth pursed with unknown fears. Wonder flooded his brain, fogging his thoughts, as he took her in. As he watched her, he thought of Rohan, of the earthy simplicity of these people, the freedom of the grassland country. The sheer vastness of the huge sky above the plains, and the supple strength of the people. In a harsh land, the people of Rohan bent like reeds against the winds of war, enduring, weathering the assaults that battered them from all fronts. Their strength, thought Faramir, was in their endurance, their refusal to break under the weight of challenge. The woman at his side was the same, battered but not broken.

As he gazed at her, Eowyn's visage seemed to soften into gossamer light, her golden hair a halo around her face, her ocean eyes bright in her pale face. How blessed, he thought, how blessed I am to seek the heart of such a one.

And with that thought, fever overtook him, and his vision faded to midnight. His last sensation was that of Eowyn catching his falling body in her arms, gathering him close and protecting him.


	13. Chapter 13

**Oh, the melodrama. We're going a bit AU here, folks, hope you don't mind. Hope this isn't too melodramatic for you. As always, thanks for reading and reviewing, and they don't belong to me.**

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In looking back, Eowyn knew not where she found the strength to drag Faramir's motionless body back to the Houses of Healing. She could feel the fever heat rolling off him, and the sight of his flushed and sweating face sent panic racing through her veins. As she pulled him along, she called frantically for someone, anyone, to aid her, to rescue him. She stepped on the hem of her gown, tearing it, and she stumbled backward, pulling Faramir's body to rest in her lap. A near-howl of helplessness left her lips, and she cradled his head against her breast, calling desperately for someone to come.

After what seemed an age, a confused looking solder of Rohan appeared, his head swathed with a bloodstained bandage. His confusion turned to purpose as he swept Faramir into his arms and bore him swiftly out of the gardens, with Eowyn fast upon his heels. Eowyn's chest constricted as Faramir's head rolled back against the soldier's chest, as one already dead.

The soldier's voice barked a terse command, and several healers appeared straightaway, leading him on until they disappeared into Faramir's bower. Eowyn tried to follow on, but a strong arm blocked her way, shunting her aside. Eowyn met Ioreth's steel eyes, and the healer gave a small shake of her head, turning to join her patient. Eowyn grasped her arm with a desperate sound, and whispered frantically, "Ioreth, you must save him." She was terrified to see the old healer's own eyes fill with tears. "Dear Ioreth, please." Eowyn forced herself to release her grip, instead folding her hands into a supplicant gesture. "Let me help, I beg."

Ioreth gave a curt shake of her head, her headdress brushing the strong curve of her jaw. "Lady, if you would help, you should tend to these men as you would the Lord Faramir." She swept her arm out, gesturing along the corridor, filled with silent, broken men. "Take all the fear, all the pain, and all the love in your heart, my lady, and gather them together. Banish them by comforting these men, easing their pain so that you may ease your own. And pray then to Mandos, as Luthien did, that he may spare your lord from this dread darkness." With a bracing look, Ioreth turned away, and shut the heavy oak door behind her.

Eowyn closed her eyes, cursing the dewy tears upon her lashes. After a long moment of silence, she took a steadying breath, and knelt, laying her hand gently on the shoulder of a battered soldier of Gondor on a litter at her feet. At her touch, he opened his eyes, squinting against the light, a grimace of pain passing over his face. The pain aged his face, which was beardless and fair-skinned, and Eowyn's heart gave a pang in her chest to see one so young laid so low. His clouded eyes sought her face, but the delusion of his pain made her a mere shadow in his vision. He tried to wriggle away from her touch, but cried out in pain, and whimpered, "Who is it?"

Eowyn smoothed her hand over his forehead, brushing the blood-stiffened hair away from his forehead. "Rest, sir, it is merely a healer." A strange thrill ran through her at the words. "Are you in pain?"

The lad rolled his head back and forth once, but his eyes belied his agony, and a sheen of fever sweat glistened on his cheeks. Eowyn's knees twinged at her awkward position, so she gathered her gown about her and seated herself at the soldier's side. She was at a loss for what to do, so she grasped his hand in her own and continued stroking his forehead with whisper-softness. He did not shy away, instead sagging back against the cot with an out-blown breath.

Eowyn knew not how long she sat there, but she waited until the young soldier's eyelashes fluttered closed, framing his cheeks. His breath was slow and even, his chest rising and falling with steady cadence. She brushed her fingers lightly over his hair, then forced her protesting knees to stand, and moved on to the next prostrate form, and knelt beside him.

For long hours she moved up and down the hallway, from broken body to broken body, soothing, whispering, holding hands. She ignored the blood that caked, gummy, around her fingernails, and took no note of the passage of the dusk into night.

Her mind occupied, she did not notice the heavy door to Faramir's chambers swing open, and did not hear the weary footsteps approaching from behind. Ioreth's wizened but strong hand on her shoulder made Eowyn jump slightly, but she did not turn until she had finished washing clean a soldier's blood-stained hands.

As she tipped her chin to look at the old healer, Eowyn felt a heavy sigh escape her. But as she took Ioreth's hand and stood, she felt a strange sense of calm, a grim satisfaction in having helped to soothe the agony of the soldiers, in some small way. She had felt thus before, when she sat at the side of her spell-wracked uncle, or at the bed of her mortally wounded cousin, but now there was a hint of pride behind the sadness.

"Tell me, Ioreth, how is the Lord Faramir?" Eowyn spoke softly, mindful of the sleeping man at her feet.

Ioreth tipped her head to one side, her face conflicted. "He is sleeping now. His wound is infected, and he let it go on for far too long. We have drained away the poison now, and all that remains is to keep the wound clean, and to fight the fever that follows such suppuration. He must find the strength to win that battle now." Ioreth lifted her hand and laid it against Eowyn's pale cheek. "I say again, let us beg Mandos to spare our Steward." Ioreth's touch lingered for a moment, and then she turned to limp slowly down the darkened corridor.

Eowyn watched her go, and found herself wanting to gather the older woman into an embrace and comfort her weary spirit. Instead, she tucked a lank of hair behind her ear and turned to Faramir's door. With a steeling breath, she pushed it open and stepped quietly to the edge of the high, wood-posted bed.

Faramir lay still as a corpse, his chest hitching occasionally with his breaths. His face was dewed with sweat. Eowyn reached out tentatively, and softly brushed a tendril of fever-damp hair away from his eyes. Despite the complexion of illness, the worry lines had left his face, and he looked young, vulnerable. On impulse and without thought, Eowyn dipped her head and rested her lips against his forehead, closing her eyes with a desperate prayer to the god of the dead. In the darkness of the night, the heat of Faramir's fever burned her lips, and fear clutched her heart, and she struggled not to abandon herself to despair.


	14. Chapter 14

**I have no excuse for how long it took me to update this. I suck. Thanks to all who were so kind to read and review...I will try valiently to keep working on this and not be so negligent next time. **

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It was the stillest hour of night's darkness. The only light spilled weakly from a guttering candle at Faramir's bedside, and from the red moon that was skating slowly across the sky. Eowyn crouched in front of the hearth, absently stirring a cauldron full of soiled bandages, soaking away their filth. Around her was piled roll after roll of clean bandages, the result of hours of tedious work. She was weary to her very bones, the sort of weariness that aches from the tip of the toes to the crown of the head. She closed her eyes, wanting nothing more than to curl up in a corner and sleep for the rest of her life.

Straightening from the fire, she shuffled to Faramir's bedside. Earlier in the night she had pulled a heavy wooden chair close to the bed and created a little nest of quilts and pillows, intending to steal moments of sleep here and there. But her mind would not allow her any rest. Every time she closed her eyes she saw the faces of the men in the hall, the young, battered soldiers and their terrible wounds. So instead she curled her body into the pillows and sat silently watching Faramir sleep.

He slept like a little boy, she decided, sprawled and wild, all arms and legs, tossing and turning in his fever sleep. Two patches of florid color burned on his cheeks, bright against the pale white of the rest of his face, and his hair was damp with sweat, sticking to his forehead and fringing his eyelashes.

Eowyn leaned forward and laid her cool hand across his forehead. She was checking for fever, of course, but she finally had to admit to herself that she was as much seeking to touch him to convince herself that he was still with her. Faramir had been her one touchstone, the only person who had not left her to ride to war. He was the only one she could speak to, cling to in these horrible days, and the only one who could understand what she was feeling. She didn't think that she could bear for him to leave her, not now. After all she had lost in the days past, for him to die would be a blow she could not withstand.

She settled back into her chair, pulling a blanket tightly around her body, seeking to diminish the cool of the night air as well as to find some comfort in the swaddling. She closed her eyes, pulling her feet up to tuck them under the quilt as well, and she rested her cheek against the smooth wood of the chair's headrest. She could feel sleep niggling at the corners of her consciousness, beckoning, but it could not battle past the fear in her heart.

Then she heard it.

It wasn't anything more than a little moaning exhale, a quiet sigh. Eowyn darted to her feet, eyes wide and weariness forgotten, and she bent over Faramir. She enfolded one of his hands in her own, clutching it, willing him back to wakefulness. With her other hand she smoothed the hair away from his eyes, and softly called his name.

Faramir's lashes fluttered, as if stirred by the wind, but he did not open his eyes. He moaned again and Eowyn bent closer, turning her ear to catch his voice. A quiet name passed his lips and tears sprang to Eowyn's eyes. He was calling for his brother. Eowyn brushed her hand across his forehead again, feeling the softness of his hair under her fingers. A tear escaped and tracked down her cheek, warm and wet. She hoped that he knew, somehow, that she was with him, that he was not alone.

Faramir gave another low moan and his hands clenched reflexively, curling into white-knuckled fists. His body gave a shiver, legs and arms trembling with a palsy of fever. Eowyn clasped one of his hands, gently prying the fingers open, and she slipped her palm into his. His fingers closed around hers, but gently, and the restless trembling in his limbs slowed.

"I'm here, my lord," Eowyn whispered, bending close to Faramir's face. "I'm here, and you're safe. I'll take care of you. Rest, lord." She softly squeezed Faramir's fingers, and he clasped her hand more tightly in response. With her other hand, Eowyn gently stroked the skin on the inside of his forearm, wondering at how soft and smooth it was compared to his calloused palm.

Faramir gave a deep sigh and rolled his head against the pillows. Eowyn hooked her toe around the foot of her chair and tugged it closer, and she leaned against the bed, her fingers still entwined with Faramir's. She lowered her head and nestled her cheek against the curve of Faramir's jaw. She could faintly hear the strong cadence of his heart beating, and the low rhythm of his breath. She closed her eyes and sighed, rubbing her thumb over the top of Faramir's hand. As weariness closed in around her, she breathed deeply the scent of Faramir's sweat and of the liniments and salves on his skin.

Finally, sweetly, sleep came.


	15. Chapter 15

**This is just a VERY short New Years Gift, to let you know I'm still here and writing. I hope to follow up with a real chapter shortly. Thanks to all who have read and reviewed, and happy new year!**

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The night was at its deepest, and the white stone of the city glowed an evil orange under the light of a blood-red moon. Somewhere, in the lower levels, a bell tolled, its sonorant echo rolling through the city like low and far-off thunder.

Ioreth shuffled through the silent halls of the Houses, stooping occasionally to brush a hand across the cheek of a sleeping soldier. Her old bones seemed to ache deep inside her, protesting the hard life of the healer, and she wished nothing more for herself than a night of sleep uninterrupted. Long, late hours of labor were the venue of the young, but there were no young here in the city. Now there were only the old, the hurt, the dead.

Ioreth quietly pushed open the door to the Steward's hold. The room was dark, only dimly lit by a guttering fire in the hearth. Ioreth bent to stoke the coals, squinting as the fire blazed into new life. She turned, wiping her hands across the back of her skirt, then stopped short.

The Steward Faramir was sleeping quietly in the bed, his face soft and slack. His color had improved, and the heat in his cheeks had dimmed to a rosy glow. His breath came even and deep. Lady Eowyn was drowsing in a chair next to the bed, her head tucked against the curve of Faramir's throat, and her fingers were entwined with his. Peace was on her face.

Ioreth's weary face smoothed into a smile, and a swell of good will rose in her breast, for these two lonely souls seemed now whole, together in the dead of a long night.


	16. Chapter 16

**The end is near indeed. It isn't fair to all the wonderful people who have reviewed that I let this go to the wayside. I will be closing this story out soon. My sincere and true apologies for leaving it the way I did.**

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The snap of a large ember in the fire broke Eowyn's reverie and she set her tea down untasted, and ran her fingers across her dress, which had been given to her with a shy bow by Ioreth's young maid. Eowyn smiled as she admired the deep wine-colored velvet, and she softly touched the embroidered vines that marched across the bodice.

Suddenly, she was startled with the realization that she could no longer hear the slow, deep breaths of Faramir's sleep, which had lulled her with its comforting regularity. She whirled in her chair, hand flying to her now-pounding heart.

Faramir lay quietly, eyes open and fixed upon her, and when Eowyn met their gaze, he graced her with a slow, weary smile. With a speed she would later recall as unladylike, Eowyn leapt from her chair and dashed to Faramir's side. "My lord!" She laid her hand on his forehead, searching for any fever, and she found it quite cool.

Faramir's dry lips formed her name, but he could not speak it. He gingerly tried to lift himself up onto his elbows, and Eowyn slipped an arm behind his back to ease him up until he could lean easily against the carven headboard. He was strangely moved at how strong yet gentle her touch was, and he suppressed a shiver borne not of chill but of the tactile brush of her fingers across the nape of his neck as she helped him to settle back.

Eowyn stepped back from the bed and gave a small smile, her mouth pinching at the corners to stop unwanted words, and she unconsciously smoothed her hands over her dress. "How do you feel, my lord?"

Faramir opened his mouth to reply but his voice was strangled by the arid dryness of his throat and tongue, so he managed only a rasping whisper. "Thirsty." Eowyn hurried to pour a draught of water from a fine porcelain pitcher on the bedside table, and she held the cup to Faramir's chapped lips. He drank deeply and somewhat too greedily, for water spilled from the cup and ran down his chin to soak the collar of his nightshirt. Eowyn smoothed the moisture away with her thumb, Faramir's stubble pricking her skin.

"Slowly, Lord Faramir, slowly." She drew the cup away and Faramir eyed it hungrily for a moment, then his gaze shifted to her face and she felt that she saw, strangely, a different sort of hunger on his face. Flushing in the heat of his look, she turned and dipped two fingers into a small dish of salve on the bed table, which she gently smoothed across Faramir's chapped lips, then she sank to a seat on the mattress next to him. The woven coverlet radiated the warmth of his body, but it was no longer a heat of fever. "Your fever has broken, lord," she began, but he stopped her with an upraised hand.

"I am only Faramir. You needn't name me lord," he said gently, his voice thick and raspy with disuse, and Eowyn colored again at his tone. "After the days of trial we have shared, I would consider it an honor and a grace for you to use my name as a friend."

"Faramir," The name was quiet and sweet on her tongue. "Your fever has broken and the suppuration of infection has passed." Faramir smiled slightly and reached out to grasp Eowyn's hand with both of his own. He ran his fingers across her palm, examining the healing calluses and nicks of battle. Eowyn placed her other hand on Faramir's cheek. "It gives me such joy to see you well again."

Faramir's wandering fingers crossed her palm again. "How long has it been? How goes the battle?"

"Three days you slept with the fever." Eowyn fixed him with a stern look. "You did not care for your wounds as you should, Faramir, and you pushed yourself far too hard too quickly. Believe that it will not happen again." She feigned a severe look, planting a fist on her hip, but then her face darkened in earnest. "As for the battle, I cannot say. No word has returned."

Faramir shook his head wearily. "I should like to see the sun, Eowyn," he said, and he swung his legs slowly to dangle from the side of the bed. Eowyn slipped her shoulders under his arm and helped ease him to his feet. He tested the strength of his legs and found them sufficient, but he kept Eowyn tucked close against his side, not willing to forfeit the feeling of her arm wrapped around his waist, of her strong frame stretched along the length of his own.

Together they walked slowly through the high stone arch-door, out into the gardens. The sun was making its way down into the west but hung high enough that the red-gold light still painted the garden walls. The sharp scent of lavender was on the wind, wafting from the healers garden just below. Eowyn looked to the North, straining as though by sheer force of will she could espy the armies of men, her people, her brother. Faramir glanced at her, then followed her northward stare. "Even an eagle's eyes could not cross such a distance," he teased, nudging at her shoulder.

"Nor the eyes of a ranger," she gibed in return, then sighed. "Would that we were eagles and could fly north at speed." She reached down and grasped Faramir's hand. "It pains me so, not knowing how they fare," she admitted.

Faramir squeezed her hand. "I think somehow that it shall not be long now." His grey gaze was now set hard in the north. "The time draws near."


End file.
